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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 












THE VENGEANCE OF 
THE IVORY SKULL 



* 


t 

J 

THE VENGEANCE 

OF THE 

IVORY SKULL 


BY 

MARION HARVEY 

Author of 

“The Mystery of the Hidden Room” 



NEW YORK 

EDWARD J. CLODE 






























COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY 

. / 

EDWARD J . CLODE 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 




HAY 12 *23 4 h 

©C1A704533 . V' 


To My Mother 

in memory of the old Rio days. 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

Room 402 . 






PAGE 

I 

II. 

The Man with the Scar 






II 

III. 

The Ivory Skull 






22 

IV. 

The Clinton Household 






32 

V. 

The Burial Urn 






43 

VI. 

The Official Inquiry . 






59 

VII. 

An Eminent Detective 






72 

VIII. 

By Permission of the Chief 





83 

IX. 

A Clue. 






99 

X. 

Reconstruction . 






hi 

XI. 

Judith’s Account 






128 

XII. 

Neville St. John 






139 

XIII. 

The Lawyer’s Story 






156 

XIV. 

Gomez’s Assistant . 






168 

XV. 

The Arrest .... 






183 

XVI. 

Parrish’s Motive 






192 

XVII. 

A Part of the Truth . 






205 

XVIII. 

Maria Theresa’s Confession 





215 

XIX. 

The Gardener 






223 

XX. 

A New Version . . . 






234 

XXI. 

At the Palacio . . . 






250 

XXII. 

Niccolo . . . . 






263 

XXIII. 

The Last Act . . . 






274 

XXIV. 

The Legend of the Skull 






284 

XXV. 

The Fulfilment of the Curse 




294 

XXVI. 

Conclusion . . - > 






304 



















THE VENGEANCE OF 
THE IVORY SKULL 



4 


THE VENGEANCE 
OF THE IVORY SKULL 


CHAPTER I 

ROOM 402 

The longer I knock about this old world of ours, and 
I have wandered far and wide over the face of the 
globe, the more convinced I become that nothing is 
wholly left to chance; for only a preordained fate could 
have willed that I should see the beginning and the 
end of a mystery which involved three continents and 
taxed the ingenuity of one of the best minds in the 
United States. Nor do I regret my share in the game 
that was played (your archaeologist is well infected 
with the virus of adventure), since I was not only 
afforded the opportunity of renewing acquaintance with 
a city more fascinating than a beautiful woman to a 
man of my temperament, but also because I returned 
to America richer by a memory and the gift of a rare 
curiosity, the smallest and most perfect human skull 
ever carved from a piece of ivory. 

It lies before me on the desk as I write and the 
malignant gleam of its infinitesimal emerald eyes, as 

[1] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


though it would remind me of that end to which all 
of us must come, brings back to me that morning in 
June which saw the beginning of the strange and direful 
events into which I became irresistibly drawn. 

I had just returned from a trip to Egypt, and being 
homeless like all nomads, I put up for the interim that 
I expected to be in New York at the Hotel Magnificent. 
I had been domiciled two days when one morning about 
ten o’clock as I was leaving my room I encountered a 
chamber-maid running down the carpeted hall toward 
me and shrieking at the top of her voice. Amazed at 
this seeming lack of discipline in an otherwise well- 
ordered establishment, I grasped the girl by the shoul¬ 
der and demanded to know what was wrong. 

“Oh, sir, he’s dead,” she sobbed, terror-stricken. 
“Somebody’s done for him, they have.” 

“Dead?” I exclaimed, horrified; and when she con¬ 
tinued merely to weep and nod her head, I shook her 
impatiently. “Speak up, my girl. Who’s dead?” 

“That—that dago man in 402, sir,” she gulped. 

I waited to hear no more. Calling to the frightened 
girl, “Go and get the manager,” I hurried down the 
hall to 402. The man she referred to was not Italian 
but Brazilian, Benjamin Garcia by name, and only yes¬ 
terday we had lunched together at his invitation when 
he discovered that I had once visited his native land. 
And now he was dead, murdered I 
[2] 


ROOM 402 

Nonsense; it could not possibly be; such things did 
not happen to gentlemen. He was probably asleep and 
seeing him still in bed at this hour the girl had taken 
fright. She had left the door ajar and I stepped across 
the threshold boldly, determined to test the accuracy 
of my deduction. One step I took in the room, then I 
flung up my hand to shut out the awful sight that met 
my eyes. 

In an easy chair beside the window lay Benjamin 
Garcia, fully dressed, in his heart a dagger and on his 
distorted face such a look as is seen only on the coun¬ 
tenances of the damned, such a look as one might 
imagine the lost souls in Dante’s Inferno to have worn! 

The arrival of the manager and his horrified exclama¬ 
tion startled me into action once more. 

“The police,” I said. “Call the police.” 

The manager, who like all of his kind cared more for 
the reputation of the hotel than for the avenging of a 
crime, looked at me suspiciously. To prevent the ques¬ 
tion which I saw formulating itself on his thin lips I 
told him how I came to be present in that room of 
death. He listened courteously enough; and when the 
little maid, standing tremblingly in the doorway, cor¬ 
roborated my statement, he addressed a young clerk 
who had arrived with him. 

“Tell the house detective to come up here and tele¬ 
phone the police. You needn’t come back.” 


[ 3 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

The clerk reluctantly departed with many a back¬ 
ward glance, hoping no doubt that the manager would 
recall him, but that sleek individual had already dis¬ 
missed the youth from his mind. He turned to me. 

“Do you know this man?” he inquired. “I don’t 
mean merely his name. I got that from the register. 
Are you acquainted with him?” 

“No. I lunched with him yesterday but only because 
he was lonely and I had friends whom he chanced to 
know. I had never seen him before to my knowledge,” 
I replied. 

At this moment the house detective presented him¬ 
self before us, but so quietly did he come that I did 
not know he was there until the manager began to 
speak. 

“You’re a fine specimen of a detective,” said the lat¬ 
ter angrily, waving his hand toward Garcia. “What 
do I employ you for, anyhow? How dare you let a 
thing like this happen in my hotel? What do 
you-?” 

“Cut it, Mr. Bell,” interposed the detective coolly. 
“I can’t be in two places at once. Didn’t you tell me 
to get the dope on that Dalton couple? Well, that’s 
what I was doing when this happened.” 

Before the manager could interrupt, his face purple 
with suppressed rage, I hastened to pour oil on the 
troubled waters. 

[ 4 ] 



ROOM 402 

“The damage is done. Bickering won’t undo it. 
Supposing we get busy and try to find out how it hap¬ 
pened and who is responsible,” I remarked, calmly. 

“That’s the ticket,” responded the detective amiably, 
sauntering toward Garcia with his hands in his pockets. 

“I wouldn’t disarrange things too much, though,” I 
continued. “The police will be here any minute, now.” 

A look of disappointment spread over the sallow face 
of the man as he bent to examine the body; then he 
smiled sourly, and remarked, “It’s up to me to beat 
them at it, then. Police detectives ain’t much on solv¬ 
ing mysteries.” 

“And I suppose you are a wizard at that sort of 
work?” inquired a new voice. 

I turned and saw entering the doorway a physician, 
an inspector, and two burly policemen. It was the in¬ 
spector who had made the remark in a rather caustic 
tone. Evidently he was no more pleased with the oc¬ 
currence than the manager had been. I had always 
imagined, probably because I had never given the sub¬ 
ject much thought, that the police were more or less 
delighted when a crime was committed as it provided 
them with occupation; but I presume that a steady diet 
of crime becomes as unpalatable as a steady diet of any¬ 
thing else. And the police had their reputations to 
maintain as well. No wonder, then, that the inspector 
looked annoyed and chewed savagely upon the stump of 

[ 5 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


a cigar. Beyond the dead body there was nothing, not 
a clue of any kind, apparently, to hint as to the identity 
of the murderer; for even the weapon was part of the 
equipment of the hotel, the steel paper-cutter supplied 
with every desk. It was a powerful blow that could 
wield so blunt a dagger so effectively, I decided. 

While the doctor determined the exact manner of 
death, the inspector addressed the manager who stood 
in the center of the room with a worried look on his 
sharp face. 

“Can you find out for me whether this man had any 
callers last night?” asked the former, shifting the cigar 
to the other side of his capacious mouth. 

“Yes, Inspector. I’ll secure the information for you 
immediately.” The manager departed on his errand 
and the inspector turned his attention to the maid. 

“You discovered the crime, did you not?” he in¬ 
quired in a kindly tone when he saw how frightened 
she was. He was gray-haired and portly, and doubtless 
had daughters of his own. 

“Yes, sir,” was the low reply as the girl twisted her 
apron nervously. 

“Tell me about it. You need not be afraid. No one 
is going to accuse you.” The inspector laid a fatherly 
hand on her thin shoulder as he spoke. 

“I’m supposed to clean the rooms on this floor, sir,” 

she answered, giving him a gratefully tearful look. 

[ 6 ] 


ROOM 402 

“I always start here at this end. I knock and if there’s 
no answer I open the door with my pass key. I—the 

door was open, so I walked in and then I saw him-” 

She shuddered and paused. 

“The door was open, you say? Do you mean merely 
unlocked or was it standing open?” 

“Just closed to, sir. I knocked and he—he didn’t 
answer. I thought he’d gone out and forgot to lock it. 
He’s a dago and don’t always understand, sir.” 

The inspector looked across at me. “So, he’s Italian, 
eh?” 

“Not at all. He is a Brazilian.” 

“A friend of yours?” 

“No, but I have exchanged a few words with him. 
He told me among other things that he expected to sail 
for home at the end of the month. I believe he had his 
passage engaged,” I replied. 

The inspector found no time to comment upon this 
information. The doctor was calling us excitedly. We 
crossed the room to the window and joined the two men 
who were gazing down with such intentness upon the 
victim of this tragedy, and the doctor broke at once 
into eager speech. 

“He’s been dead since midnight, Inspector, stabbed 
through the heart by this knife. Do you notice that 
the murderer has avoided plunging the knife through 
the thickness of coat and vest and has introduced it 

[ 7 ] 



THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


from above in such a way that the resistance from the 
man’s clothing was the least possible? With a weapon 
as blunt as this one such a precautionary measure was 
necessary to insure success. We can infer from that 
that the murderer probably stood behind the chair and 
struck when his victim’s attention was engrossed else¬ 
where.” 

“The evils of dolling up in the evening,” commented 
the house detective drily. “If he hadn’t donned his 
tail-coat the murderer could not have reached his heart 
so easily.” 

We did not stop to discuss this side of the affair. The 
doctor had more news for us. “Look here, Inspector,” 
he said. With a dramatic gesture he flung open the 
dead man’s shirt and pointed to the bared chest. 

Seared into the flesh by the action of some powerful 
acid was the imprint of a tiny, human skull! 

Fascinated I gazed upon the brand, more engrossed 
by the perfection and flawlessness of the impression 
than by its significance until the inspector’s voice 
roused me from my abstraction. 

“Branded after he was dead?” the police official was 
echoing in perplexity. “If he was Italian, I’d say it 
was one of those darned blackhand societies that was 
responsible.” He swung around in relief as the man¬ 
ager reentered. “Well?” he demanded. 

“The night clerk has some information for you, In- 

[ 8 ] 


ROOM 402 

spector. Here he is now. He can give it to you better 
than I,” returned the manager, ushering forward a 
sharp-eyed, lantern-jawed young man who looked as 
though he were thoroughly wide awake and up to snuff. 
He spoke concisely and callously, not in the least af¬ 
fected by the sight of that poor dead body which a few 
hours ago had been a living sentient creature. 

“About seven last night a man came up to the desk 
and asked for this fellow here,” said the clerk with a 
nod of the head toward the chair and its burden. “I 
phoned up to 402 and was told to send the guy up.” 

“Just a moment,” broke in the inspector. “Did he 
give you his name?” 

“Sure. He said it was Gilbert Parrish, but he looked 
kind of like a foreigner, so thought I to myself, That’s 
not your name at all. You can’t deceive the likes of 
me.’ However, if 402 was satisfied, it was none of my 
business what the man called himself. A half-hour 
later those two, Parrish and this fellow here, crossed 
the lobby to the dining-room as friendly as two turtle 
doves. About nine o’clock I saw them leave the hotel 
still as thick as thieves. 402 of course left his key 
with me and at eleven back they came and asked for it. 
When I was going off duty around twelve-twenty or so, 
I saw the other fellow come down the stairs and leave 
the hotel.” 

“Didn’t it occur to you as very fishy that he should 

[ 9 ] 


JHE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

walk down four flights with the elevator handy?” 
asked the inspector irritably. 

The clerk smiled superciliously and stroked what he 
fondly assumed to be a mustache. “Those foreigners 
are queer ducks. No elevators for them. Most of 
them use the stairs unless they happen to be on the 
tenth or fifteenth floors.” 

“You can identify this man if you saw him again?” 
continued the inspector anxiously. 

“Surest thing you know. I could pick him out of a 
million,” was the boastful reply. 

“Describe him to me.” The inspector drew out a 
notebook and his fountain pen, and the crease between 
his eyes faded as he began to believe that the end of 
his task was in sight. 

“He was tall, dark, well-set up, well-dressed,” dic¬ 
tated the clerk glibly. 

The inspector stopped him with an angry snapping 
together of the covers of the book. “And how many 
hundreds of men are tall, dark, well-dressed?” he re¬ 
marked cuttingly, for he thought the clerk was making 
game of him. 

“Hold your horses, old fellow,” retorted the clerk 
serenely. “I can pick him out because he limps and 
across his right cheek he has a livid semicircular scar! ” 


[10] 


CHAPTER II 


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 

Three days later I was requested to attend the in¬ 
quest which was a necessary preliminary to the finding 
of the murderer of Benjamin Garcia. There had been 
nothing of interest in the papers so far, and as the hotel 
management had refused to discuss the affair I had 
been left totally in the dark concerning the activity of 
the police. As I made my way to the court-room where 
the inquest was to be held, I speculated as to the pos¬ 
sibility of a solution of the crime. Had the police dis¬ 
covered Parrish? And if so, what account had he to 
give of his movements that night? 

The room was crowded with the usual spectators 
who attend such trials and when I had told all that I 
knew of the dead man and the manner in which I had 
happened to become involved in the tragedy, I took a 
seat fairly close to the witness chair to await with keen 
interest Parrish’s turn to take the stand, for I had heard 
it whispered that the police had succeeded in unearthing 
him. 

The doctor testified next, not only of those circum¬ 
stances with which I was already acquainted but also 

[ii] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


of a new discovery which he had made. Upon Garcia’s 
arm was a tattoo which had been partially effaced, but 
so skillfully had the destruction of the mark been car¬ 
ried out that nothing remained but a series of lines from 
which it was impossible to determine the original de¬ 
sign pricked into the flesh. 

The chamber-maid and the night clerk followed the 
doctor, and they related what they knew at much 
greater length than was at all necessary, it seemed to 
me. Particularly did the coroner emphasize the point 
that Parrish and Garcia had returned to the hotel to¬ 
gether at eleven. What this portended I was soon to 
know, for as the clerk left the stand, the coroner or¬ 
dered Gilbert Parrish to come forward and testify. 

At his words there was a stir in the court-room and 
down the aisle came a man such as the clerk had de¬ 
scribed, tall, dark, fashionably dressed, a man whose 
extraordinary grace of figure was belied by a halting 
limp and whose uncommon facial beauty was marred 
by an ugly scar. His unusual appearance created quite 
a sensation, but unfortunately his testimony which was 
anything but convincing, and his past, which the police 
were careful to bring forward in the worst possible 
light, told against him and turned the tide of public 
opinion. I found myself unconsciously pitying the fel¬ 
low, for the story that he told was after all straight¬ 
forward enough. 

[12] 


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 


“Several years ago,” he began in a pleasant voice 
with the slightest of foreign accents, “I met Benjamin 
Garcia abroad. Hearing that he was in the city I called 
upon him.” 

“One moment,” interrupted the coroner. “Did you 
meet him in one of those gambling resorts which you 
and your kind frequent for the purpose of fleecing the 
unsophisticated?” 

The dark face of the man in the witness-box re¬ 
mained unclouded by the other’s offensive tone. It 
was as if the words passed him by, as though he were 
on too high a plane to stoop to notice an attempted 
insult. 

“It is true,” he said levelly, “that I live in a great 
measure by my luck at cards; but it was not in such 
a place that I met Garcia. A mutual friend introduced 
us and it was the same friend who apprised me of 
Garcia’s presence in New York and asked me to make 
him feel at home. As the hotel clerk has told you I 
called on Garcia at the Magnificent. Had I con¬ 
templated doing him harm would I have been such a 
fool as to give him my name?” he inquired of the court. 

“Not your name, but a name,” asserted the coroner, 
stressing the article. “A professional card player and 
ne’er-do-well finds it convenient to have many aliases 
up his sleeve.” 

“You are mistaken, sir,” returned the witness with 

[i3] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


dignity. “I have never found it necessary to conceal 
my identity.” 

The coroner’s skeptical smile showed how little 
credence he placed in this statement. He merely or¬ 
dered Parrish to continue. 

“We dined together at Garcia’s invitation and later 
we went for a walk along Broadway. It was a glorious 
night and Garcia was anxious to view the gay lights and 
hear what I could tell him of the life of this big city 
during the night hours.” 

“Considering that you yourself had just arrived from 
Naples that very morning, Mr. Parrish, you could not 
have known any more than he did about New York’s 
night-life,” interposed the coroner in a smooth voice. 
“As to learning of his whereabouts and being asked 
to make him feel at home, well, I can only remark that 
you are a pretty fast worker.” 

“I have lived in New York before, your honor; I am 
at home in many cities, and it does not take a whole 
day to get news of one’s friends. On the other hand, 
this was Garcia’s first visit to this country.” I won¬ 
dered at the man’s self-control as he resumed his story 
in the same, pleasant even tones. “I indulged Garcia’s 
whim and we strolled along until we reached Forty- 
second Street. Chancing at the moment to become 
aware of the hour, I recalled an appointment with a 
man of prominence then in town whom I was particu- 

[14] 


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 


larly desirous of seeing; so bidding Garcia good-night 
I left him at the corner. I glanced back after crossing 
the street and he was still standing there looking up at 
the electric signs. And that, your honor, is the last I 
ever saw of him.” 

When Parrish had ceased speaking, the coroner 
stroked his chin thoughtfully, conferred with a stocky, 
heavy-faced man who stood near him, and then began 
the cross-examination. He took up the weapon and 
handed it to Parrish. The latter accepted it indiffer¬ 
ently. 

“Ever see that before?” inquired the coroner sharply, 
his eyes on the other’s face. 

“Never.” Parrish returned the weapon with a slight 
bow. 

The coroner looked nonplussed, then he selected a! 
card from his desk and extended it to the witness. 

“And I suppose you will deny having seen anything 
like this before?” was the ironic query. 

Parrish examined the card with an expression of 
profound surprise, almost too profound to appear really 
genuine. “Very interesting,” he commented. “May 
I inquire what this pen and ink sketch, by the way it 
is very well done, is supposed to represent?” 

The coroner retrieved the card and held it up for 
the benefit of the jury. “The skull drawn on that card 

[i5] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


is an exact reproduction, Mr. Parrish, of the brand 
found on Garcia’s chest.” 

“Indeed?” The man in the witness-box spoke per¬ 
functorily as though he could not understand why he 
should be troubled with such trifling details. He was 
very much bored with his examination and with every 
answer the coroner was becoming more and more 
baffled. He hastened to arrive at the crux of the 
matter. 

“Did you hear the night clerk testify that you had 
returned to the hotel with Garcia?” 

“Yes,” said Parrish indifferently. 

“How do you reconcile to that your statement that 
you parted from the victim of this tragedy at Forty- 
second Street?” 

“The clerk was laboring under a delusion. I did 
not return with Garcia. At the time of the murder I 
was in conference with the man I have mentioned be¬ 
fore as I carefully explained to your detective this 
morning when he asked me to attend this inquest,” 
was the calm reply. 

“Have you any objections to telling the court who 
this man is to whom you have so often alluded in rather 
vague terms?” The coroner was growing caustic. 

“None at all. He is well known in New York. His 
name is William K. Vardusi,” replied Parrish oblig¬ 
ingly. 

[1-6] 


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 


At mention of this name the court sat up and blinked 
its eyes William K. Vardusi was a wealthy and re¬ 
spected member of society, a lawyer who stood at the 
top of his profession and was revered by his colleagues 
for his ability and his integrity. It had been said that 
Vardusi never took a case where there was the least 
doubt of his prospective client’s right to the verdict. 
Surely if Parrish was acquainted with Vardusi, the 
former was hardly likely to be a cold-blooded murderer. 
Public opinion, as unstable as the mob, swayed by every 
breath of oratory, veered toward him; the women were 
whispering that he was far too handsome to be a vil¬ 
lain; the men were declaring that he looked like a good 
fellow. Only the coroner seemed unimpressed. He 
asked Parrish to step down for a moment and give place 
to Mr. Vardusi’s butler. 

With the wholly impersonal and detached air con¬ 
sonant with the attitude of the perfect butler, Vardusi’s 
servant waited to be questioned. He was slender and 
slightly bald and in his hand he carried a bowler on 
which he kept his eyes fixed in deference to the coroner. 

“Was your master at home the night of the twenty- 
fourth?” inquired the law’s minion. 

“No, sir. He has been out of town since the first 
of the month. Got back this morning early, sir,” said 
the man to his hat. 


[17] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“Did Mr. Parrish, the gentleman who has just testi¬ 
fied, call at the house that night?” 

“No, sir. No one came to the house either that or 
any night,” responded the butler. 

“That is all. Mr. Parrish, please.” 

With the same aloof manner, the butler vanished 
from our midst as quietly as he had come and Parrish 
resumed the stand. His face had acquired a leaden 
hue and he searched that assemblage with something 
very near to panic in his hazel eyes; the look of the 
hunted stag when the baying of the pack resounds 
upon his heels and he senses inevitably that the end 
has come. So Parrish realized that he was trapped; 
yet he made one more desperate bid for liberty. He 
clung to his original story, insisting that his version of 
his actions upon that night was the true one and that 
Vardusi himself had answered the bell. Though the 
coroner put him through a grilling which would have 
shaken the nerve of a far less sensitive man all that 
Parrish would say was to reiterate what he had told us, 
a story which had been contradicted by reliable wit¬ 
nesses but from which he would not deviate by so much 
as a hair’s breadth. When, worn and haggard, he was 
finally allowed to leave the stand and the coroner turned 
to address the jury, it was evident that the verdict was 
sure to go against him. Already the crowd, swinging 
to the other extreme of the pendulum, were murmuring 
[18] 


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 
that the young man was a dangerous and hardened 
criminal. 

And then just as the foreman was about to announce 
the decision, there came up the aisle a very wrathy and 
indignant member of society, a small, very dark man 
with bright black eyes and a gray Vandyke who raised 
his hand in a gesture of command and spoke to the 
coroner as one might reprimand a bungling servant. 

“What, may I ask, is the meaning of this outrage?” 
he demanded in a voice of cold fury. “How dare you 
question the statements of a person as evidently a gen¬ 
tleman as Mr. Parrish? Do I look like the type of 
man who consorts with criminals? Let me tell you 
then that Gilbert Parrish is my very good and honored 
friend.” 

At this point in his tirade he paused to grasp Par¬ 
rish’s hand and at a low-toned injunction to lead him 
back to the witness stand where they stood together 
but oddly contrasted; the little fiery lawyer quivering 
with indignation, the tall, younger man so pale that the 
scar leaped like a live thing against the dead whiteness 
of his skin. 

“You know who I am,” declared Vardusi, vehement¬ 
ly. “You are personally acquainted with me, Mr. Dis¬ 
trict Attorney. You all know that my word is my bond. 
I have come to testify in behalf of my friend and it is 
a lucky thing that I happened to return to town this 

[ 19 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


morning in time to prevent so monstrous an injustice 
as the one which was about to be perpetrated.” 

He glared at the offending officials who seemed lit¬ 
erally to shrivel where they sat in the flame of his con¬ 
tempt, then he continued: “At twelve o’clock on the 
night of the murder, Mr. Parrish and I were in con¬ 
ference as he has informed you. I know that my butler 
has stated the exact contrary, but there are some things 
which, trusted though he is, I still do not tell my servant. 
This is one of them. Our conference was a secret one. 
To attend it I came back to town and let myself into 
my house after the butler had retired. I admitted Mr. 
Parrish and let him out. I also returned to my country 
house that same night. What we said or why we met 
in this manner is our concern, but it proves beyond the 
shadow of a doubt that Mr. Parrish was not at the 
Hotel Magnificent when this murder was committed.” 

With a bow to the District Attorney, Vardusi stepped 
down from the stand leaving Parrish alone to await the 
verdict. The coroner was greatly puzzled and consider¬ 
ably annoyed. He scratched his head; he compared 
notes with the other police officials; but as Mr. Vardusi 
was a prominent individual whom it was not politic to 
offend and who was hardly likely to stoop to shield a 
criminal, the coroner directed the jury to find that 
Garcia had come to his death at the hands of a person 
or persons unknown. Parrish was accordingly released 
[ 20 ] 


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 

and the murder relegated to the limbo of unsolved 
mysteries, for though I watched the papers assiduously 
for a number of days thereafter nothing further was 
learned concerning the tragedy. 

To me the strangest part of the whole affair was the 
fact that the hotel clerk always maintained that he was 
in the right, and that it was too far-fetched to assume 
that two men as startling in appearance as Parrish 
could possibly have come to the hotel that night. And 
then there were so many threads left dangling in the 
air. What had become of the skull that had caused 
the brand? What was the tattoo that Garcia had tried 
to efface and what induced him to take such a step? 
Why, if he was stabbed from behind as the doctor sug¬ 
gested, did fear, a soul-destroying terror, take posses¬ 
sion of his being? 


CHAPTER III 


THE IVORY SKULL 

A month later I ran across the trail of the murder 
again. I had remained in New York attending to a 
commission for a friend, but now I was at loose ends 
once more and was meditating where to turn next when 
a letter decided me. 

I am an archaeologist of no mean reputation. I do 
not make the statement boastfully nor with any desire 
to be egotistical. Any person who cares to do so may 
verify my record, for the name of Professor Anthony 
Potter is a well-known one in antiquarian circles the 
world over. 

It was therefore my custom wherever I might be 
sojourning at the time to dispose after breakfast of my 
voluminous correspondence Miich consisted mainly of 
requests from would-be collectors and dealers, those 
artful beings created by the Lord for the sole purpose 
of wheedling money from my perpetually flat purse, 
requests that I give them the benefit of my specialized 
knowledge in advising them of the true value of the 

articles which they were desirous of either buying or 
[ 22 ] 


THE IVORY SKULL 


selling. As I received letters from nearly every coun¬ 
try on the map and some that were not, I slit the gray 
envelope bristling with Brazilian stamps with no greater 
interest than I had its predecessor from Bombay. Like 
all of its type it would find its way into my waste¬ 
basket after I had read the first three lines, for how 
could I possibly measure the genuineness of an object 
which I had never seen and which I had no intentions 
of traversing illimitable miles to view? 

But when I drew out the innumerable close-written 
sheets, a something about the script, its old-fashioned 
precision perhaps, struck me forcibly and aroused a 
long dormant cord of memory. Hastily I turned to 
the signature and stared with mingled feelings of sur¬ 
prise and pleasure at the neat “Tom Clinton” which 
graced the bottom of the page. Tom Clinton of the 
old Rio days whom I hadn’t heard from since I had 
left Brazil in 1906! Could it really be sixteen years 
since he and I had chummed it in that land of marvelous 
enchantment when he had led me through the wilder¬ 
ness in search of the burial ground of a long-forgotten 
tribe? 

I returned to the letter and as I deciphered amidst 
the myriad reminiscences with which the thin gray 
pages were replete, the real reason for Tom’s calling 
to mind my humble existence, the languorous charm of 
the lovely, lazy capital, narrow-streeted, sunless, rest- 

[23] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

ful 7 crept into my blood, quickened my pulse after a 
lapse of more than a decade, and stole away my senses 
ere I was aware. Without stopping to analyze where 
my best interests lay, I seized my hat, and hurrying to 
the nearest office cabled the one word, “Coming.” Had 
Tom merely wanted me to come upon a visit I could 
not have been more eager to answer the summons than 
I now was to have the chance to catalogue his treasures 
for the approaching Exposition. 

I easily secured passage on the Lamport and Holt 
line and on a warm day toward the end of July I 
ascended the gangplank of the waiting steamer in the 
wake of a tall young man who gave me the distinct im¬ 
pression that somewhere I had encountered that poise 
of the head and that limping walk before. But I did 
not catch a glimpse of his face and when I returned on 
deck to watch our departure, he was nowhere to be 
seen. 

Doubtless I am a sentimentalist, or it may be that 
as I grow older places and events affect me more; at 
any rate as we steamed out of the harbor and I saw 
the giant buildings of New York’s sky-line fading in 
the distance, the feeling was strong upon me that much 
was to happen before I beheld those sky-scrapers again. 
Indeed so tenaciously did the thought of disaster cling 
to my mind that I reproved myself sharply for a super¬ 
stitious fool as I turned away from the railing and I 

[24] 


THE IVORY SKULL 


was just about to descend the companion way when a 
sudden glitter, like the glint of gold in a pan of pay¬ 
dirt, caught my eye. Stooping I picked up what I took 
to be a small pebble and laying it in the palm of my 
hand, bent my head the better to examine it. 

My first glance was merely curious. My second and 
closer scrutiny held me rooted to the spot, for the ob¬ 
ject that I contemplated was a tiny ivory skull, mar¬ 
velously perfect, exquisite, old. Four centuries or more 
had turned the ivory a deep yellow but had not dimmed 
the brilliance of the emerald stones that filled the eye- 
sockets, stones so small as to be almost microscopic. It 
was the sort of beautiful workmanship upon which the 
artists prided themselves in the days of Cellini and 
which were bestowed on kings and nobles in return for 
some beggarly service. 

As I stood there gazing in awe-struck wonderment 
at the little curio, the rarest thing I had seen in all my 
wanderings, a figure brushed by me and without warn¬ 
ing a hand, slim and white, closed upon the skull and 
snatched it from my grasp. Startled I looked up as my 
despoiler limped away and recognizing the back of the 
man whom I had previously noted I hastened after him 
to demand his right to an object of such incalculable 
value. Hearing the sound of my steps he glanced back 
at me for a fleeting second. At sight of that marred 
cheek, the ugly saber scar a livid seam in the deep 

[ 25 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


pallor of his countenance, I halted in amazement, all 
impulse to pursue him checked by the shock of absolute 
recognizance. 

The man was Gilbert Parrish! And the skull was 
such a one as might have made the brand on the chest 
of Benjamin Garcia! 

Every detail of the month-old tragedy returned to 
me in all its clearness in the sudden revelation vouch¬ 
safed me and I began to wonder whether Parrish might 
not have been guiltier than he was judged. I deter¬ 
mined to have another look at the ivory skull. Then 
a different thought obtruded itself. Had the recogni¬ 
tion been mutual and did he fear my inspection of his 
treasure? Was he afraid I might learn the secret of 
its use? I pondered the question and finally decided in 
the negative, for though he was unchanged, the sudden 
failing of my eyesight due to too concentrated work 
had forced me to adopt glasses the week after the in¬ 
quest. As they were tortoise-shell rimmed and very 
round they gave me the aspect of a dignified owl. There 
was no danger of his knowing me and I had for an ex¬ 
cuse in approaching him his unpardonable rudeness in 
snatching from me, as though I might contaminate it, 
the little ivory curio. 

In pursuance of this decision, I went in search of 
“the man with the scar” as the newspapers had dubbed 
him. I found him in the stern gazing moodily over the 
[26] 


THE IVORY SKULL 


vast expanse of blue water with such a bitter smile 
lurking at the corners of his finely curved mouth that 
I hesitated to disturb him. But he must have divined 
my presence for he swung around toward me with the 
same savage intentness with which an animal might 
turn upon its tormentor; then, seeing in me a harmless 
individual who wanted to begin the voyage by making 
the acquaintance of the passengers as soon as possible, 
he asked quite amiably in contrast to the scowl upon 
his brow: 

“Did you wish to speak to me, sir?” 

“Yes,” I returned without preamble, “a while ago I 
found a small curio upon the deck. I have reason to 
believe that you are the man who so unceremoniously 
relieved me of it. I have come to inquire your right 
to the object which, if I am any judge at all of antiques, 
is of considerable value,” and I held out my hand to 
receive the skull. 

The scowl deepened until it darkened his whole face 
as he said, harshly, “I took nothing from you, sir. You 
must be dreaming.” 

I held him with my eye. “Do you mean to deny that 
you are not now in possession of the ivory skull?” I 
demanded. 

At my words he started and stared at me like one 
bereft of his senses. His jaw hung limp and his eyes 

seemed bulging from his head while over his face spread 

[27] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


again that leaden hue which I had noted at the inquest. 
He put a hand on my shoulder and shook me. “The 
ivory skull! Did you say you had the ivory skull in 
your hand?” he asked in a strangled voice. 

“Yes, and some one took it from me,” I retorted, 
shaking off his hand. “I thought it was you. You 
brushed past me at the moment.” 

He gave a laugh that sounded hollow and unpleasant 
to my ear. “God, I only wish I had taken it,” he cried. 
“Do you know what it is, this thing that you held? It 
is the death symbol. It is accursed, accursed I tell 
you I ” 

His voice broke on a high note and with a wild 
gesture of despair he brushed me aside and limped hur¬ 
riedly away. Dumfounded I watched him disappear 
from view, more bewildered by this turn of affairs than 
I had been before by the entire mystery of the tragedy. 
If Parrish had not taken the skull who had and for 
what purpose? Why did Parrish fear it? He had 
called it accursed, therefore he must have known its 
history. Yet at the inquest he had said he had never 
seen anything like the drawing of the skull which the 
coroner had showed him. Did he, too, anticipate an 
end such as had overtaken Garcia? 

I had no way of answering these questions, and then 
suddenly a solution presented itself. Had Parrish 
merely been acting and did he have the skull in his 
[28] 


THE IVORY SKULL 


possession at the time? I had come across men before 
now who endowed curios with supernatural power and 
who feared that these powers would react against them¬ 
selves if the curio should ever fall into alien hands. 
No doubt the sight of it in my grasp had aroused him 
to a frenzy and he had pretended innocence that I might 
not have a chance to look upon the object again. With 
a shrug I dismissed the matter from my mind, nor did 
I see the skull again during the remainder of the 
voyage. 

As for Parrish, true to his instincts and his method 
of livelihood, he spent most of his time in the card 
room where he engaged, one after another, many of the 
passengers. That he was generally successful I gathered 
from disgruntled opponents who nevertheless returned 
again and again in the hope of recouping their losses. 
Among these latter I was astonished to note a strikingly 
handsome young woman whose olive skin and snapping 
black eyes proclaimed her of Latin origin. Later I 
learned that she was, as I had surmised, a native of 
Italy and that she bore the high-sounding title of Nita 
Giovanni, Contessa di Sforza. 

When I first remarked her the game was at its height 
and all that was primitive and passionate in her nature 
leaped to the surface as she raised the stakes recklessly 
higher and higher in her endeavor to break this man 
who had taken from her the greater part of her fortune. 

[ 29] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


It was impossible not to admire her courage when, her 
last dollar gone, she rose and swept Parrish a curtsey 
with crimson cheeks and smiling lips, announcing that 
henceforth she would be seen only on deck and in the 
salon where she rightfully belonged. 

It was a challenge that Parrish was not slow to accept 
and when I saw him desert the tables to pace the deck 
with her, I debated whether I ought not to warn him. 
She was a dangerous creature to meddle with. He 
might win her money with impunity, but if he was only 
amusing himself with her, and having won her affection 
he played her false, she would think as little of sticking 
a knife into him as she did of smoking the cigarette he 
was offering her as they conversed in undertones near 
the rail. After watching them for some five minutes 
I came to the conclusion that Parrish was quite capable 
of managing his own amours and would hardly thank 
me for interfering. So I continued to observe this affair 
du coeur from the seclusion of my deck-chair, follow¬ 
ing its checkered career with eager interest as the lady 
blew hot and cold by turns, since no other event worth 
recording broke for me the twelve days’ monotony of 
sea and sky and sky and sea. 

The night we sighted Rio de Janeiro saw the con¬ 
clusion of this game of hearts. To the Captain’s dis¬ 
gust we reached the entrance to the harbor after the 
booming of the sunset guns had proclaimed the closing 
[ 30 ] 


THE IVORY SKULL 


of the port so that we were forced to lie to outside the 
bay. Through the darkness I looked longingly toward 
the curving blaze of glory that was Rio and with the 
disappointed feeling of having been barred out at the 
very gates of Fairyland, I started down the deck to go 
below, barely avoiding the two figures that stood so 
motionless by the rail. A glance I gave them, then 
silently continued on my solitary way. As I slowly 
descended the companion way I sighed softly, finding 
it in my heart to envy Parrish his ultimate success in 
winning the glorious Nita for his own. Had I been ten 
years nearer thirty he should not have won her quite 
so easily. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE CLINTON HOUSEHOLD 

The next morning I arose betimes to catch a glimpse 
of the Rio I had known when the sun was just beginning 
to lift the purple shadows from the summit of the Sugar 
Loaf and from the distant cloud-enshrouded brow of 
Corcovado. Presently the deep resonant reverberation 
of the guns permitted our ship to slip past the twin 
island rocks and make her way into the harbor which 
is guarded on either side by the great stone forts of 
Santa Cruz and Sao Joao. As the steamer came to 
anchor near the inner fortress of Villegagnon in order 
that the health and customs officers might come aboard, 
I gave silent thanks for the opportunity which enabled 
me to view at my leisure the entrancing loveliness of 
one of Nature’s most picturesque and safest harbors. 

- About the entrance bare gray peaks stand as barriers 
against the ocean’s storms; within against a back¬ 
ground of evergreen slopes and distant mist-clad moun¬ 
tain tops the kaleidoscopic city with its red-tiled roofs 
sprawls bewitchingly lovely, graceful, lazy, to the very 
edge of a sparkling, island-studded, sapphire bay that 
calm and placid as a day in summer serenely washes 
[32] 


THE CLINTON HOUSEHOLD 


the curving shores and dimpled creeks of Rio’s delight¬ 
ful crescent beaches. 

Thus did Rio present herself for my inspection in 
holiday dress, for I have seen the time when the bay, 
weary of playing the part of a miniature summer sea, 
had taken unto itself the prerogatives of the ocean, 
tossing its waves in defiance mountains high, overflow¬ 
ing the enbankments and even threatening to annihilate 
them completely. To-day there was only beauty in the 
scene before me and I stood drinking it in, oblivious 
to the fact that we had docked until a shout of “All 
ashore” startled me into action. Catching up my hat 
and my brief-case I descended the gangplank to the 
public square which had been laid out opposite the 
docks making of them a thing of adornment as well as 
of utility. Here I looked in vain for a sign of Tom, 
then made my way to the wharf where the luggage had 
been deposited for customs inspection. 

As I stooped to unlock my trunk a clap on the back 
almost sent me sprawling while a booming voice de¬ 
clared jovially, “By the powers, Tony, if I hadn’t seen 
your name on that trunk I’d never have known you.” 

I recovered my balance and grasped Tom Clinton’s 
extended hand, but with a laugh he exclaimed, “Don’t 
be so formal. Give me a hug for old times’ sake,” 
whereupon we fell to alternately embracing and patting 
one another on the back in the approved Brazilian style. 

[ 33 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


Presently he held me off at arm’s length for a good 
look at me. “What the dickens have you done to your¬ 
self/’ he growled. “You’re as thin as a rail, Tony, 
and your face is as brown and wrinkled as that of one 
of your beloved mummies.” 

Vanity was not one of my foibles. I was frankly 
amused at his description. “And I’m a little thin on 
top, too,” I added. “But what can you expect from 
a man who spends his life in the open the way I do?” 

I was mentally noting with profound astonishment 
how gently time had dealt with him in the interim. 
Except that his face was fuller and that he had grown 
a trifle heavier he was the same old Tom, good-natured, 
big-voiced, jovial. 

“Where did you pick up that extra ten years?” he 
continued, regarding me quizzically with those bright, 
blue, humorous eyes I remembered so well. 

“Delving continually into the past is apt to age a 
man,” I reminded him. “But I’m not quite so dead as 
I may look. Besides, Tom, it’s sixteen years since 
we’ve met, you know.” 

“Sixteen years! ” he echoed incredulously. “It seems 
impossible. Sixteen years? Nonsense, man. Why it 
was only yesterday that we were breaking our way 
through the jungle. Do you remember the time—. 
But we can talk to better advantage at home,” he broke 
off with a boyish grin. “Got anything dutiable?” 

[34] 


THE CLINTON HOUSEHOLD 


“Not unless it’s cigars.” 

“All right. I know one of the officials personally. 
I’ll have this stuff cleared in no time, then we’ll stop 
somewhere for a good cup of coffee. I’ll warrant you 
won’t quarrel with me if I offer you some breakfast.” 

“On the contrary I’d be more apt to bless you. I’m 
starving,” I responded. 

He nodded and sauntered away, hands in his capa¬ 
cious pockets, until he came across the man he was 
hunting, a little swarthy fellow in a dark blue uniform 
over whom he towered like a veritable mountain. With 
a jerk of the head Tom conveyed the impression that 
he desired to speak with the official in confidence, a 
hint which the little man was quick to heed. There 
was a hurried conference, a bill skillfully changed 
hands, and the upholder of the law came briskly toward 
me. He saluted me with the suggestion of a smile, 
lifted the lid of my trunk, made several passes over it 
as though he were a conjurer who expected to remove 
therefrom all manner of unlooked for articles, appeared 
disappointed when nothing occurred, gently lowered the 
lid of the trunk, shifted his gaze to my Gladstone bag 
which had not yet been opened and marked my lug¬ 
gage as free from duty; all this so rapidly that I had 
barely followed his motions before he had vanished 
again among the crowd on the wharf. The bill had 
proved as effective as it usually does in such cases. 

[35] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

‘Tm glad to find Rio the same in some respects,” 
I said to Tom as we entered his car after partaking of 
an enjoyable breakfast at a small restaurant near the 
wharf. “That coffee is as delicious as of old and 
bribery is still an open game, I see.” 

“What would you?” asked Tom, lightly. “Rio may 
change, but the natives, never.” 

“Rio has changed,” I remarked as Tom’s chauffeur 
drove us rapidly down the Avenida Rio Branco toward 
the Beira Mar. “This boulevard shows all too clearly 
what the city will soon become.” 

I glanced as I spoke along the seemingly interminable 
vista of wide, hot, glaring macadam with its rows of 
young trees bisecting the street throughout its entire 
length; I looked at the broad, black and white mosaic 
pavements where pedestrians must walk unshaded for 
many a long year until the trees that line the sidewalks 
have grown to their full size and have put forth their 
foliage as a protection against the heat and tropical 
brilliance of the sun; and I shook my head sadly. 

“I preferred the old Rio of narrow, sunless streets,” 
I said, regretfully. “She was less obtrusive, less 
blatant, more soothing to the eye. It is as if one left 
one’s sweetheart retiring, quiet, aloof, and returned to 
find her flaunting boldly the painted beauty of a woman 
of the world.” 

Tom remonstrated with a wave of the hand toward 
[ 36 ] 


THE CLINTON HOUSEHOLD 

the Avenida. “My dear fellow, don’t let a Brazilian, 
my wife, for instance, hear you say that. They are 
proud, and justly, of this accomplishment. You would 
not have had the city remain what it was surely.” 

“Don’t mistake me, Tom,” I interposed, quickly. 
“I am not disparaging the beauty of the city; far from 
it. It’s magnificent, superb, and as intoxicating to one’s 
senses as the woman I compared it to. But to me it is 
not so alluring as the Rio of old. I’m an archaeologist, 
remember.” 

“And the older and dirtier, the better you like it, I 
suppose. There is no accounting for tastes, Tony. 
However, even the very oldest inhabitants are forced to 
concede that in one respect at least the city is vastly 
improved. Let me introduce you to one of our many 
shore drives, the Avenida Beira Mar.” 

Tom spoke banteringly as we rounded the Pracca 
Tiradentes and swung into the boulevard that skirts 
the bay, but he might as well have been in earnest for 
the prop of my argument was knocked from under me 
by the revelation of gorgeousness presented to my view. 

On the one side, the bay, a turquoise jewel in its 
magnificent setting of hills; on the other, the multi¬ 
colored villas nestling against the deep verdure of the 
mountains that surrounded them, each house set within 
its formal garden where a bewildering mass of deep 
purples, flaming reds, and glowing corals mingled in 

[ 37 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 3 

riotous confusion with rose and lavender and yellow. 
Even the glittering white ribbon of the curving drive 
took upon itself an added significance. 

I drew a long breath and apologized for my former 
hasty summary. ‘Til have to admit that this drive is 
an improvement,” I said, “and I presume that progress, 
that watchword of civilization, demanded the other, so 
there is no more to be said.” 

Tom only grunted by way of reply for at this point 
we turned through a wrought-iron gate into a drive¬ 
way which wound through a fair-sized garden, beneath 
the porte-cochere of the house, and around the back to 
the garage. As we approached the house the chauffeur 
slowed up and I had a chance to remark the outside 
of what Tom termed his “palace.” Like most Brazilian 
residences it was a two-story, rectangular structure 
with balconied windows on the second floor. Originally 
terra-cotta it had been plastered a peculiar shade of 
buff, a rather pale tinge just one degree removed from 
white. Over the front of the house had been trained 
creepers and vines through whose emerald foliage 
peeped the deep pink of ramblers or the soft yellow of 
the tea rose. 

The door, which strangely enough was around the 
side of the house, was opened for us by the copeiro, who 
corresponds to our butler, a good-looking mulatto whose 
[ 38 ] 


THE CLINTON HOUSEHOLD 

brown face was on the broad grin as he bobbed his 
head to us. 

“Take the Senhor’s bag to his room, Cesario,” or¬ 
dered Tom in Portuguese, then to me in English, “My 
wife is upstairs and she’s anxious to know you.” 

I followed my host up the broad mahogany stairs to 
a room at the front of the house, a handsomely fur¬ 
nished drawing-room where a young and charming 
woman turned from the open window to greet me. 

“My dear,” Tom drew her hand through his arm and 
patted it as he addressed her in her native tongue, “al¬ 
low me to present to you a friend of my youth, Pro¬ 
fessor Anthony Potter.” 

With an adoring glance at her husband from limpid 
brown eyes, she withdrew her hand and extended it to 
me with the gracious salutation, musically intoned, 
“Senhor Potter can rest assured that any friend of my 
husband is most welcome to my home.” 

It was a long time since I had spoken Portuguese, but 
I tackled the language bravely and was pleased to find 
how easily my tongue twisted itself once more around 
the unfamiliar syllables as I conveyed to my hostess 
how happy I was to know the wife of a man whom I 
esteemed as much as I did Tom. 

“My husband is a fortunate man to have such a 
loyal friend,” she complimented me, then called caress¬ 
ingly, “Ricardo, meo querido” 


[ 39 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


On the instant a boy about ten years of age entered 
the room, and having bowed respectfully to his mother 
and father, held out to me a thin brown hand. 

“You are my dad’s friend,” he said to me in prim 
English. “I am most happy to become acquainted with 
you, Professor Potter. My name is Ricardo Clinton.” 

Tom broke into a hearty guffaw as I gravely shook 
the lad’s hand. “He’s been learning that speech for 
days, the young imp,” remarked the proud father, 
pinching the olive cheek. “Isn’t he Helena all over 
again, Tony?” 

I glanced from mother to son and indorsed Tom’s 
fond judgment, for the boy had the same shade of 
chestnut hair, the same large brown eyes and bright 
red lips set in as delicate an oval face. There was none 
of Tom’s hugeness about the child. 

The remainder of the household I met at luncheon 
since Tom’s next move was to conduct me to my room 
which lay at the other end of the long corridor and 
which was furnished rather severely but with a view 
to comfort as witness the mosquito netting around the 
bed, a necessary precaution in Brazil. Throwing him¬ 
self into a chair, my friend proceeded to bombard me 
with questions while I made a desultory attempt to 
unpack. I got as far as unearthing the cigars, then 
drew up a chair to the window to enjoy undisturbed the 
[40] 


THE CLINTON HOUSEHOLD 


flavor of the perfecto and the story of the intervening 
sixteen years. 

As the details of Tom’s wanderings from the time 
that I left Brazil until his marriage with Helena Ra- 
malho caused him to settle down and go into business 
can have no possible interest to anyone but myself I 
shall not burden this chronicle with them. 

At luncheon, Tom, like the unconventional soul that 
he is, introduced me generally to his family, leaving 
it to me to decipher their relationship to him. That 
others besides himself, his wife, and his son should 
make their home with him hardly astonished me. The 
Brazilians—and Tom had lived in the country long 
enough to be accounted one—are very hospitable and 
will care for their relatives who have fallen upon evil 
days until such time as they are once more capable of 
looking after themselves. I once knew a man who sat 
down to table with forty extra persons every meal, re¬ 
lations on both sides of the house, whom he supported 
and who kept him comparatively poor despite his large 
income. 

So, as I said before, I was not surprised that Tom 
should number among his household his wife’s relatives. 
There were three of them, her sister, her brother, and 
the brother’s wife. 

Maria Theresa Ramalho, the sister, was barely 
eighteen, a lovely, clear-skinned, black-eyed girl as 

[41] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


charming as Dona Helena and as insouciant as her 
brother, Duarte, who was as dark and dashing as a 
hero in a play. No wonder, then, that he had capti¬ 
vated Judith St. John, a piquant, little Virginian, the 
daughter of the American Consul, captivated her to 
such an extent that she had actually married him, a 
rash act for a girl of her temperament. Being Ameri¬ 
can and hot-tempered, she was not likely to tolerate, 
what most Brazilian women shut their eyes to, the in¬ 
fidelity of her husband. As I noted the involuntary 
contraction of Judith’s fair face whenever her gray 
eyes strayed toward her husband I began to wonder 
whether there were not an undercurrent of unhappiness 
in the apparent tranquillity of Tom’s home and whether 
the girl were not already chafing against the indis¬ 
soluble tie which bound her to one as devil-may-care 
as the young Brazilian. 

There was yet another person at the table who in¬ 
trigued me, Neville St. John, Judith’s brother, a blonde 
young giant who divided his time between bending ugly 
looks upon Duarte Ramalho and sending tender glances 
in the direction of Maria Theresa. After watching the 
young man for a while I came to the conclusion that his 
love affair was not progressing as rapidly as he desired 
and that Ramalho was to blame for its troubled course, 
a guess which I afterward learned to have been founded 
upon fact. 

[42] 


CHAPTER V 


THE BURIAL URN 

After luncheon Tom took me into the library, a 
small square room with one window which opened di¬ 
rectly on the garden and could be used as an entrance. 
Occupying the entire wall to the left of the window was 
an immense bookcase filled from top to bottom with a 
heterogeneous collection of objects of virtu, bronzes, 
mosaics, jades, bits of tapestry, ancient jewelry, vases, 
pottery, and a variety of other things, which had been 
thrown in promiscuously with no attempt at classifica¬ 
tion or even at valuation. I saw at once that I was go¬ 
ing to have a stupendous task upon my hands to cull 
out those objects which would be worthy of exhibition, 
for it is not always easy to determine the value of 
curios with whose history one is unacquainted. 

The articles we had picked up on our expedition into 
the interior of Brazil I would know how to classify, and 
especially was I attracted to the huge funerary urn, 
large enough to contain an entire human body, which 
stood partially concealed by the open door. This urn 
was an old friend, for Tom and I had found it upon an 

[ 43 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


island which lay in the center of a lake within the con¬ 
fines of the enormous island of Marajo at the mouth of 
the Amazon River. This inner island was once used 
as the burial ground of an ancient tribe and from it we 
had carried away many interesting pieces of pottery, 
most of which we had presented to the Brazilian 
Museum. 

“Why don’t you place the urn in a more effective 
position?” I inquired as Tom unlocked the glass doors 
of the bookcase. “It’s a shame to hide it behind that 
door.” 

“The servants are superstitious about it. If it were 
on full display this room would never be cleaned,” he 
answered, smiling. “But, come, what do you think of 
this, eh?” 

He held out for my inspection a piece of Indian 
feather work of marvelous beauty which blended into 
one harmonious pattern the exquisite pinks and blues 
and greens of the Brazilian birds. 

“I won’t have much trouble classifying that,” I re¬ 
turned. “But those other things,” I waved my hand 
toward the case, “are practically new to me and will 
take considerable time to trace to their sources since 
you were so careless as to lose the data in connection 
with them.” 

He spread out his hands deprecatingly in the foreign 
fashion which was tantamount to saying that what was 
[ 44 ] 


THE BURIAL URN 

done could not be undone and there was no further 
use in discussing it. So I simply remarked that I would 
begin at once, and in spite of his remonstrance that 
there was no particular hurry, I went upstairs for my 
brief-case. I had lived amidst the hustle and bustle 
of the world for so long that I had quite lost the habit 
of never doing to-day what could possibly be put off 
until to-morrow, a habit which was responsible for con¬ 
verting Tom into the easy-going man he had become. 

I don’t mean to imply that little or no work is done in 
this land of languorous heat. The foreigners toil early 
and late at their respective occupations and the lower 
classes earn their daily bread as the Lord commanded 
that man should earn it. It is only the leisure class 
Brazilians who saunter through life, dabbling in various 
gentlemen’s professions as stepping-stones to political 
advancement, refusing to be hurried and finding time 
for the little amenities which we, in our modern rush 
and scramble after the dollar, so often overlook. I 
could not blame Tom for having adopted a philosophy 
which affords one a chance to enjoy the beauty as well 
as the hard materiality of life. 

But I digress. 

As I lifted the brief-case from my trunk, the sweet 
call of a sabia drew me irresistibly, and for a second 
I stepped out upon the little balcony outside my window 
to enjoy the fineness of the day. Above me stretched 

[ 45 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


the dazzling blue of a cloudless sky; beneath me spread 
the sweet-scented flamboyant garden along whose 
paths strolled Maria Theresa and her giant admirer. 
Then from around the corner of the house came Duarte 
Ramalho. At sight of the two lovers he hurried for¬ 
ward and ordering the girl to return indoors, con¬ 
fronted his American brother-in-law. 

“How many times must I tell you,” began Ramalho 
angrily, sawing the air with his hands, “that Maria 
Theresa is not for you, that I will not have you making 
love to her—stealing her virginity, perhaps, by your 
smooth talk.” 

“You miserable scoundrel!” St. John grasped the 
little Brazilian’s slender shoulder in a huge paw and 
shook him as easily as he would have a child. “If you 
so much as hint such a thing to me again, I’ll break 
every bone in your body and be jolly glad I did it, 
too.” 

“Neveele!” At Maria Theresa’s anguished cry,St. 
John loosed his hold and strode away, whereupon I re¬ 
entered my room a trifle ashamed of having spied upon 
what was assuredly none of my business. 

That same afternoon Tom received word that he was 
needed in Sao Paulo on business. He was reluctant to 
go but the importance of the deal to be put through 
made it imperative for him to leave at once. He im- 

[46] 


THE BURIAL URN 


pressed upon me as he bade me good-by that I was not 
to spend every moment of his absence in the library. 

“I shall probably be gone a week. In the meanwhile 
the house is yours, my dear fellow. Besides, Helena 
will find the evenings lonely without me. See what you 
can do toward keeping her happy,” were his parting 
words. “I’ve half a mind to lock up the library until 
my return.” 

Had he been blessed with prophetic vision he would 
have acted upon that suggestion, and not only locked 
but sealed as well that room of fateful memory. 

I was anxious, however, to finish cataloguing a cer¬ 
tain set of very fine and unique bronzes which I had 
begun upon just before dinner, so after our repast at 
which I was the only gentleman present, I excused my¬ 
self to the ladies and returned to the library. When the 
task was completed, seeing that the evening was still 
young, I determined to follow Tom’s advice and went 
in search of Dona Helena. 

I found her on the second floor in a large airy room 
furnished in wicker which seemed to be a sewing-room 
and studio combined. Tom’s wife was engaged in a 
piece of needlework; Maria Theresa was painting the 
boy, Ricardo, and Judith, lying at ease upon the settee, 
was reading aloud for their entertainment. My ap¬ 
proach had an unprecedented effect upon this picture 
of amicable home-life. Ricardo ceased to pose; Maria 

[ 47 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


Theresa hastily covered her canvas, and Judith slipped 
the book beneath the cushions at her head. Only Dona 
Helena remained undisturbed. With a smile she in¬ 
vited me to join the circle while her nimble fingers 
continued their task. 

“I did not mean to intrude,” I said quickly. “If I 
am at all in the way I shall be happy to withdraw.” 

“You need not feel obliged to leave us, Senhor, be¬ 
cause two foolish girls act as though they had never 
seen a gentleman before in all their lives,” Dona Helena 
interposed serenely. 

“Helena,” pouted Maria Theresa, reproachfully. “I 
am only an amateur. I did not want the Senhor to 
smile at my poor attempt.” 

“Indeed I had no such thought,” I reassured her. 
“I’ll consent to remain only upon one condition, that 
Maria Theresa resume her painting and that the 
Senhora Ramalho continue her reading,” and I bowed 
to the two young ladies. 

The would-be artist obediently set to work once 
more, but with an amused laugh Judith shook her 
bright head at me. 

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t enjoy the book,” she said 
in English. “French novels are not written to be read 
aloud in company. If you will permit me I’ll finish 
reading it to myself.” 

I inclined my head and as she buried herself in the 
[ 48 ] 


THE BURIAL URN 


pages of the yellow-backed volume I drew up a chair 
beside Dona Helena. Before I could find a topic of 
conversation which I thought might be of interest to 
my hostess there was the sound of an angry exclamation 
as with a choking cry Judith flung the book from her. 
As it clattered to the floor a long, thin-bladed paper- 
cutter made in the shape of an Indian dagger fell from 
its opened pages. Rising, I picked up the knife and the 
book and offered them to Judith Ramalho. With a 
strange glitter in her eyes she accepted the knife and 
bent the blade between her slender white fingers. Again 
I held out the book, but with a gesture of repugnance 
she waved it aside and rose to her feet. 

“Thank you. Excuse my outburst but the author’s 
philosophy suddenly grated on my nerves. The book 
is rotten to the core like—like—.” She closed her 
teeth upon her quivering lip to keep back the words 
and a bitter smile hovered for a moment about her 
mouth as she hurried from the room with quickly filling 
eyes. 

Dona Helena drew a sharp breath. “She is losing 
her senses, that girl. Soon she will be proclaiming to 
the world her unhappiness.” The musical syllables 
were uttered more to herself than to me. 

To break the awkward pause which followed I said 
rather inanely, “You understand English, Dona 
Helena?” 


C 49 1 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“Yes, I comprehend but do not speak it,” she replied. 
“I know what Judith would have said, but she is a 
foolish, jealous girl. Duarte is a good husband to her. 
She does not understand, that is all.” 

I agreed and changed the subject for I was not inter¬ 
ested in Judith’s marital problems nor did I particu¬ 
larly care to have a finger in this especial pie, although 
I might have replied that the different viewpoint of 
nationality was responsible for the trouble. 

During the next few days life ran along smoothly 
enough with only an occasional flare to warn me that 
the apparent peace was the ominous calm which pre¬ 
cedes a storm. Once I found Maria Theresa in tears 
after a mutinous interview with Ramalho; and the 
afternoon of the fifteenth of August (that date is firm¬ 
ly impressed on my memory) I saw through the open 
library window the gleam of Judith’s white dress as 
she paced the garden in deep converse with her brother. 
Because Neville St. John had not been near the house 
since his quarrel with Ramalho on the day of my ar¬ 
rival, I took his presence in the garden to mean one of 
two things; either he had decided to enlist his sister’s 
aid in furthering his cause with Maria Theresa, or else 
Judith had reached the end of her endurance and had 
summoned Neville to advise her. In the latter event 
the interval of calm was at an end and the storm was 
due to break at any moment. 

[ 50 ] 


THE BURIAL URN 


When I descended to the lower hall just before din¬ 
ner I encountered Duarte Ramalho. His face was 
blanched, his eyes seemed starting from his head, and 
he was trembling to such a degree that he could hardly 
stand. Thinking that St. John was responsible for the 
Brazilian’s pitiable condition, I took Ramalho’s arm 
with contemptuous solicitude and helped him to a chair 
in the library. Then I went into the dining-room to 
pour him out a glass of port from the decanter on the 
side-board. When I again approached the door of the 
library he was bending over something in his hand, but 
at the sound of my steps on the stone floor he raised 
toward me such a haggard, terror-filled countenance 
that I thrust the glass upon him, crying out in alarm, 
a Good God, man, what’s the matter!” 

With trembling fingers he held the glass to his blood¬ 
less lips and while he drained the wine I stooped to 
pick up the object which he had let slip unheedingly 
to the floor. One horrified glance I bestowed upon it, 
then dropped it as though it held the plague, for the 
object was a tiny ivory skull, infinitely old, exquisite, 
perfect, the very skull which had branded Garcia, the 
ivory curio that Parrish had claimed meant death to 
look upon! 

“In God’s name where did you get this—this inven¬ 
tion of the devil’s!” I exclaimed aghast. 

By what trick of fate had the cursed thing found 

[5i] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


its way into Ramalho’s hands? And had Parrish any¬ 
thing to do with its appearance? 

“Where did you get it?” I repeated more quietly, 
touching the young man’s arm to impress upon his fear- 
bemused senses that I was speaking to him. 

“My wife’s brother—gave it to me,” he muttered, so 
low that I had to bend to catch the words. “It is—it 
means death. My God, I didn’t know that he—!” 
He broke off abruptly and sat staring before him with 
dilated eyes. 

Suddenly he sprang to his feet, exclaiming wildly, 
“I must go! I must hide!” but he got no further for 
at this moment Cesario ushered in Parrish and the 
Contessa di Sforza. 

Impetuously Parrish grasped the Brazilian’s limp 
hand. “Duarte,” he cried in French. “Duarte, my 
friend.” 

“Gilbert!” A radiant smile lightened for a second 
the terror in the gray face of Ramalho as he embraced 
Parrish fervently. “My dear friend. It is like old 
times to meet you again.” 

Parrish disengaged himself and addressed his fair 
companion who had been looking on at this fervent ex¬ 
change of greetings with a faint smile on her beautiful 
lips, and the very ghost of its mocking reflection in her 
lustrous eyes. 

“Nita, permit me to present-” 

[ 52 ] 


THE BURIAL URN 


“No, no. It is not necessary, Gilbert. Duarte and 
I are very good friends, is it not so, mon ami?" she 
interrupted, extending her left hand with a regal 
gesture. 

“We met in Paris, Nita and I.” Ramalho made the 
explanation as he raised the hand to his lips with the 
air of a courtier paying homage to a queen. 

It was at this precise moment that Parrish’s eye in 
its circuit of the room discovered me standing patiently 
by the table. He bowed slightly and took a step to¬ 
ward me. 

“How do you do, sir?” he greeted me in an aside. “I 
trust you will pardon my incivility but I came here ex¬ 
pressly to have a few words in private with Senhor 
Ramalho and I have not much time to spare.” 

“The room is at your service, Mr. Parrish,” I replied, 
stiffly. I paused long enough to bow to the countess, 
who gave me in return her most charming smile, then I 
made a dignified exit through the window. 

In the garden I wandered about until dinner-time 
trying to piece together satisfactorily this puzzle upon 
which I had accidentally stumbled. Was Parrish guilty 
or was it mere coincidence that he had called upon the 
heels of the skull’s appearance in this house? Was it 
the same skull which I was firmly convinced, despite 
his protest, he had taken from me on shipboard? Or 
had my eyes deceived me and two such skulls were in 

[53] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

existence? And what had Ramalho meant when he 
declared that St. John had given him the curio? 

I could find no plausible answers for these questions 
since I could not conceive how St. John had managed 
to come into possession of the ivory skull, and I began 
to wonder with no little apprehension, recalling a cer¬ 
tain tragedy in New York, just what was happening in 
the library. Then I laughed aloud at my foolish fears. 
Parrish, whatever his intentions, was hardly likely to 
harm Ramalho in the presence of a third person and 
that one a lady. I was hypersensitive to become 
alarmed over a friendly conference. Doubtless Parrish 
was in ignorance that the skull had turned up again. 

When we sat down to table Ramalho honored us with 
his presence for the first time in many nights. I noted 
with relief that Parrish’s visit, far from having any ill 
effects, had, on the contrary, done Ramalho good. He 
was actually smiling and had regained much of his lost 
color and composure. 

After dinner at Dona Helena’s invitation we repaired 
to the drawing-room instead of the studio; that is, all 
of us but Judith and her husband, who continued down 
the hall to their room. If you recall, the drawing-room 
was on the second floor and a little to the right of the 
stairs. Thus it happened that Maria Theresa hapl 
barely begun a masterly rendition of one of Chopin’s 
Nocturnes (I never could tell one from the other) when 
[54] 


THE BURIAL URN 


the violent opening of a door hurled toward us the voice 
of Judith, shrill and tense, crashing discordantly amid 
the tender notes of the piano. 

“I don’t understand? Oh, yes, I do, unfortunately 
only too well. But I won’t submit a moment longer. 
I’m tired of living here, tired of being dependent on the 
Clintons’ bounty while you spend your money on that 
creature. I-” 

A sudden breaking in of Ramalho’s voice too low to 
catch, then a wild laugh from Judith shattered the 
ensuing silence. 

“You needn’t be afraid,” she sneered. “I won’t stop 
you.” Then, passionately, “Go—go to her. I shan’t 
beg you to stay, Duarte. I hate you, hate you. Jimmy 
was right. I should never have married you. Oh, how 
I wish you were dead, then I’d have my chance to live 
my life again free of you! ” 

There was the sound of Ramalho’s steps across the 
hall and down the stairs, followed by uncontrollable 
sobbing from Judith’s room. 

“Maria Theresa!” Dona Helena was the first to 
recover from the stupor into which the quarrel had 
thrown us. She spoke with unusual sharpness. “Take 
Ricardo to his schoolroom and stay there with him until 
your bedtime.” 

She waited until the young girl and the boy had 
obeyed the command and we heard the door of the 

[55] 



THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


schoolroom close behind them, then she addressed 
herself to me. 

“Has Judith gone mad, think you, that she talks so 
loud for the servants to hear? I wish Tom were home. 
He knows how to manage her. I confess I don’t under¬ 
stand her attitude at all.” 

“Is that so very surprising, Dona Helena?” I re¬ 
sponded gently. I was more touched than I cared to 
confess by Judith’s plight. “You are happily married, 
whereas Judith—” I left it for her to complete the 
sentence. 

“But that is just what I don’t understand. Why is 
she unhappy?” questioned Tom’s wife in a puzzled 
tone. “Because Duarte goes out and leaves her at 
home is no reason why she should weep and wail and 
carry on. It is the wife’s place to stay at home, is it 
not, Senhor?” 

“Not in the United States, and Judith, you must 
remember, looks at life from a different point of view. 
She is young and she wants a good time. She is proud 
and she loathes the thought of her husband’s depend¬ 
ence upon another man.” 

“But that is so foolish, Senhor. Duarte is still find¬ 
ing his place in the world. We are pleased to help him, 
just as he would help us if the tables should ever be 
turned,” she insisted. 

“I know,” I continued patiently, trying to reconcile 
[ 56 ] 


THE BURIAL URN 


two diametrically opposing aspects of the marriage 
question. “But Judith has not lived here long enough 
to have acquired the philosophy necessary to a com¬ 
plete immolation of self upon the altar of matrimony.” 

“Perhaps you are right.” Dona Helena rose as if 
weary of the subject and going to the window called me 
to her side. “It’s a glorious night, Senhor.” 

“Perfect,” I agreed. 

Together we stood upon the little balcony and looked 
out over the bay, brightly lighted by the dazzling illumi¬ 
nation of the many thousands of lamps that line the 
curving shores. Faintly afar came the strident whistle 
of a ferryboat, answered softly by the gentle mur¬ 
mur of the waves that lapped against the breakwater. 
Toward the horizon the forts stood out in bas-relief, 
big, black hulks rising from the shimmering, moonlit 
surface of the bay. And all around towered the moun¬ 
tains, queer, irregular shapes that lifted their summits 
to the skies, where the stars twinkled faintly, even the 
far-famed Southern Cross put to shame by the splendor 
of this city of the tropics. 

Together we stood and worshiped in silence the 
beauty of the night, five minutes, ten minutes, how long 
I do not know, when suddenly we were startled by a 
crash; and a cry, shrill, intense, the cry of a soul in 
mortal fear rang through the house. 

A moment Dona Helena and I remained frozen by 

[57] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

the horror of that sound. The next instant we were 
tumbling down the stairs. At the bottom we were met 
by Judith. Her face was chalky, her eyes terror- 
filled. 

“The urn! ” she cried out, throwing herself into Dona 
Helena’s arms. 

I dashed into the library and made for the urn, 
expecting I know not what, then I reeled back against 
the table and closed my eyes to shut out the terrible 
spectacle they had encountered. On the floor lay the 
shattered cover of the urn and inside the receptacle, 
like a bale of goods, was the crumpled, lifeless body 
of Duarte Ramalho! 


CHAPTER VI 


THE OFFICIAL INQUIRY 

I was so stunned by the horrible discovery that 
I had just made that I remained supporting myself 
against the table in a sort of daze, deprived entirely 
of the power of coherent thought. What a terrible 
thing to have happened in this home where I was a 
guest, I kept repeating over and over in witless fashion. 
No wonder Judith— Here the realization that the 
ladies, Dona Helena particularly, might come in at any 
moment, woke me to the exigencies of the situation. 
I pulled myself together, waited long enough to com¬ 
pose my features that they might not mirror the horror 
that I felt, then I hastened back into the hall. 

Judith was still sobbing but more gently. As I ad¬ 
vanced toward her Dona Helena raised a questioning 
glance. 

“What is it?” she asked fearfully. “I can get noth¬ 
ing from Judith except shudders and moans.” 

“Help me get her upstairs and then I’ll tell you,” 
I replied as calmly as I was able. I wanted to get as 
far as possible from the scene of the tragedy before 

[ 59 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


I broke the news, a difficult task at best and one from 
which I shrank with every fiber of my being. 

When we had aided Judith up the stairs and along 
the hall to her room (she walked like one in a dream 
from whom all consciousness of present surroundings 
has vanished), I spoke to Dona Helena. 

“If you will come into the studio after making 
Judith comfortable, I-” 

It was fortunate that she understood and nodded 
assent before I had finished speaking. I could not have 
added another word. Then I went to my room and 
poured myself a brandy neat. I felt the need of some¬ 
thing to steady my nerves, for though Ramalho was 
nothing to me, yet the strange manner of his death had 
shaken me considerably. 

When Dona Helena finally entered the studio and 
I saw how apprehensive she seemed, I came to the con¬ 
clusion that the greatest kindness I could do her was 
to end the terrible suspense she was laboring under. 
Compassionately I took her plump little hand in both 
my own as I told her the truth. At first she stared back 
at me uncomprehendingly, then as the full meaning of 
my words dawned upon her, with a piteous cry she 
broke from me and ran quickly down the hall. In a 
moment I was after her, barring her progress as she 
tried to descend the stairs. 

“Dona Helena,” I said sternly. “You can do no 
[ 60 ] 


THE OFFICIAL INQUIRY 

good down there,” and I pointed in the direction of 
the library. “If Tom were here he would say that your 
place was with Judith. Come, be brave,” I urged more 
gently. “Remember that the others depend upon you 
for moral support.” 

Slowly she went down on her knees and made the 
sign of the cross. “God have mercy on his soul,” she 
breathed, and I bent my head as she murmured a 
prayer. 

In the solemn silence that followed she rose. With 
a catch in her voice she said resolutely, “I am going to 
Judith. You will do all that is necessary, Senhor?” 

I raised her fingers to my lips as a tribute to her 
courage. “I will serve you to the best of my ability, 
Dona Helena,” I replied simply. 

I descended the stairs and calling to Cesario I sent 
him for the nearest doctor. In a trice he was back 
again and I noted, without really being conscious of 
doing so, how terrified the butler looked and how 
quickly he scuttled away to the back part of the house. 
Then I shook hands with Doctor Gomez, to whom I 
took a decided fancy. He was a nervous, quick-spoken 
little man, had been educated in Europe, and was 
considered a brilliant physician. He listened to my 
explanation of the tragedy with his head on one side 
and his bright eyes cocked on my face in birdlike 

fashion. He reminded me of a pert robin, for he was 

[61] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 
not unlike that feathered songster in his build. Though 
he nodded his head several times and raised his eye¬ 
brows interrogatively at every third syllable of mine 
he made no comment until I proposed that he view the 
body of Ramalho. 

Quickly he raised his hands in protest. “No, Senhor, 
I cannot do that,” he disclaimed. “I cannot examine 
the body without the permission of the police. That 
would be contrary to regulations. You have sent for 
them, of course, Senhor—? I beg your pardon, I have 
not heard you mention your name.” 

“Professor Anthony Potter, at your service, Doctor.” 

“An American, eh? So, so. That would account 
for your sending for me,” he murmured. “They do 
things differently in the United States, eh? Did you 
say you had notified the police?” 

“No, I have not, but I would be obliged if you would 
do so, Doctor.” 

“Certainly, certainly.” He hopped to the phone and 
after what seemed an interminable interval of hurried 
speech and wild gesticulation on his part, he returned 
to me with a satisfied smile. 

“The delegado will be here presently,” he said, pick¬ 
ing up his hat and bag. “He will bring his own physi¬ 
cian, which would make my presence superfluous. I am 
delighted to have had the chance to meet you, Senhor 
Potter.” 

[62] 


THE OFFICIAL INQUIRY 

He held out his hand, which I shook warmly. “I 
return the compliment, Doctor,” I responded, “and ten¬ 
der my apologies for having called you in needlessly.” 

“Not at all, not at all. I am honored to have been 
able to serve you.” He was not to be outdone in cour¬ 
tesy to me. “Just a word. When the dele gad o comes, 
give him the house. If you do not interfere he will not 
trouble you overlong.” 

I thanked the doctor for his timely hint, and while 
I waited for the arrival of the police, I suddenly deter¬ 
mined to have another look at the scene of the crime. 
By this time that first feeling of horror had worn off 
and the brandy had restored to me my lost equanimity. 
Also to an archaeologist death of itself holds no great 
terrors, since he will despoil a tomb or rob the ancient 
dead with absolutely no qualms of conscience. 

I entered the library with the full determination to 
discover whether the ivory skull had played any part 
in the death of Ramalho, but at the crucial moment my 
sang-froid deserted me. I could not bring myself to 
look again into the urn at that huddled figure. He had 
not been dead long enough to have lost his claim upon 
my humanity. So I contented myself with a systematic 
hunt for the ivory skull itself. But though I looked 
everywhere, not a sign of the little curio could I find. 
Had Parrish carried it away with him upon his visit 
to Ramalho, or had he reclaimed it when he committed 

[63] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

the murder? I paused abruptly near the table as the 
question surged through my mind. Then I asked my¬ 
self severely what right I had to believe Parrish guilty. 
Was it because the skull and that other murder sug¬ 
gested his name to me? He had been proved innocent 
on the former occasion, why deem him guilty now? 
Could no one else then have desired Ramalho’s death? 

At once there flashed across my brain St. John’s 
threat and Judith’s vehement wish less than an hour 
before. Could it possibly be—? Here I glanced 
down at the table, then bent closer to examine the 
weapon which lay there before me. Imagine my feel¬ 
ings to discover that it was the very Indian paper- 
cutter that I myself had returned to Judith on the night 
of my arrival and that the hilt bore evidences of a 
smear which could only have been made by blood! 
And Neville St. John had given Ramalho the skull! 

Could Judith’s presence in the library be accounted 
for in the light of this revelation? Had hers been the 
arm that wielded the dagger? Then I shook my head. 
She was hardly strong enough to have placed the body 
in the urn, yet she had known it was there. What part, 
then, had St. John played in the tragedy? And what 
was the real significance of the skull? 

By the time the police arrived my brains were in a 
sadly muddled state. I realized that I was not cut out 

[64] 


THE OFFICIAL INQUIRY 

to be a detective and I turned the matter over to the 
delegado with obvious relief. 

The delegado, who was not only captain of his pre¬ 
cinct but a civil magistrate as well, was a tall, thin man 
with a hooked nose and bald head, a man of superior 
education, alert, courteous, and obliging. He bowed 
to me with ceremonious politeness when I invited him 
in and he entered the house with a rapid stride, fol¬ 
lowed by his entourage, a fat, white-haired medico, and 
a wizened, bespectacled scribe in rusty black. Behind 
them came the uniformed police, whom the delegado 
immediately dispatched to round up the household that 
he might take their depositions of the affair. 

Then he called his physician to his side, and the two, 
conversing earnestly in low tones, approached the 
library while I followed in their wake. I was eager to 
learn the doctor’s verdict, but to my disappointment 
the delegado assured me with genuine regret that the 
examination of the body and the room must be con¬ 
ducted in strict privacy. 

Bowing to his superior authority, I ascended the 
stairs to the drawing-room, where the family had been 
assembled to await the police’s pleasure. I found a 
seat near one of the windows, then took a hasty survey 
of the other occupants of the room. Maria Theresa 
was sobbing audibly with her head buried in the sofa 
cushions, and Tom’s wife was weeping gently as she 

[65] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


held her son convulsively to her. Only Judith, in a 
pink negligee with her golden hair hanging down her 
back, was dry-eyed as she stared fixedly before her, 
for even the servants were sniveling as they huddled 
together near the door. Altogether it was a far from 
cheerful gathering and I, for one, was glad when the 
delegado appeared. 

The inquiry was conducted in the same manner that 
a coroner’s inquest is held in the United States, with 
the exception that there is no jury and that the scribe 
notes down in long-hand the testimony of the various 
witnesses and any questions which the delegado may 
see fit to ask. 

The cook, Esmeralda, an enormous negress, and the 
maid, Rosa, a pretty quadroon, had not been in the 
house at the time of the murder and had nothing to 
relate. They were, therefore, dismissed and they 
shuffled hastily down the hall to the back stairs as 
though elated to get off so cheaply. 

Cesario, with trembling lips and blanched face, 
related that he had been in the kitchen when he heard 
the cry, and that it had terrified him to such a degree 
that he had run into the butler’s pantry and hidden 
himself in the closet, only daring to venture forth when 
I summoned him to call Doctor Gomez. 

I knew that the fellow was lying, for I recalled that 
it was the sight of him in the hall that had made me 
[ 66 ] 


THE OFFICIAL INQUIRY 

send him for the doctor instead of telephoning, as I 
should have done had I believed myself alone. Feeling 
that it was my duty to be of as much service as I could 
under the circumstances, I addressed the delegado and 
explained what I knew. Whereupon he thanked me 
courteously and told me that any remarks which I de¬ 
sired to make concerning any of the testimony would 
be listened to with pleasure when he took my depo¬ 
sition. After which polite rebuke I subsided and 
watched the proceedings in silence. 

Seeing that he had been caught in a lie, Cesario 
retracted and stated that he had hidden in the closet 
but that presently, courage returning, he had ventured 
into the hall just as I descended the stairs. Whether 
the delegado believed this amended testimony or not 
I could not tell. His face remained impassive as he 
dismissed the butler. 

Dona Helena was called upon next. She related 
quietly how we had adjourned to the drawing-room and 
how after hearing the cry we had discovered her 
brother’s body in the urn. Of Judith’s quarrel with 
Ramalho and her presence in the room of death Dona 
Helena made no mention, and I determined to follow 
her lead. 

Maria Theresa, red-eyed and frightened, and the 
boy, Ricardo, had nothing further to add to this testi¬ 
mony and at Dona Helena’s request the delegado per- 

[67] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

mi tied her to conduct them from the room. Thus there 
remained only Judith and myself to be questioned. 

The dele gad o turned to Judith and spoke very 
gently. “Senhora Ramalho,” he said, inclining his 
head, “very often a wife can give us a hint as regards 
her husband that sisters and brothers cannot. So far 
we have learned nothing. Can you add anything further 
to the statements already made?” 

For a considerable while Judith continued to stare 
unseeingly into space as she twisted her hands nervous¬ 
ly in her lap, for so considerable a time that I grew 
impatient and curbed with difficulty the desire to urge 
her to reply. I wondered at the delegado f s calmness 
as he quietly and unhurryingly awaited her answer. 
At length she turned toward him and spoke in a hard, 
dry voice. 

“I can add nothing to what has been said,” came 
with difficulty from her lips. 

“This dagger, for instance?” the official persisted. 
“We want it identified as it is the weapon which caused 
your husband’s death.” 

When he began to speak Judith’s face had gone as 
white as death and now she flung out a protesting hand. 

“No, no, no,” she cried, shrilly. 

The delegado raised his brows. “So you do identify 
this dagger?” he inquired. 

He held the weapon toward her by its blade and with 

[ 68 ] 


THE OFFICIAL INQUIRY 

a decided effort she wrenched her eyes away from her 
fascinated contemplation of it. 

“No, I can’t identify it. But what am I saying?” 
She laughed hysterically. “Of course I know it. It is 
—it belonged to Duarte.” She passed her hand across 
her brow in a dazed way, then cried despairingly, 
“Please let me go. I—I can’t stand any more.” 

The delegado rose and escorted her to the door, then 
he came back to me with a peculiar smile about his thin 
lips. 

“They are all alike, the women,” he said with a shrug. 
“No matter what their nationality, the moment some¬ 
thing happens they’re off in hysterics. And, now, 
Senhor, I should like to hear your version of this 
crime.” 

My version of the crime indeed, thought I. What 
was I going to say when the ladies had robbed me of 
all right to be veracious? I repeated in substance what 
Dona Helena had told him, and then a sudden idea 
flashed like lightning across my mind. Why not relate 
to him the events connected with the murder of Ben¬ 
jamin Garcia, the ivory skull, and Parrish’s acquaint¬ 
ance with both the murdered men? 

“Senhor Delegado,” I remarked as he was making 
preparations to return to the library, “if you can spare 
me a few minutes I believe I can tell you of certain 
things which happened to-day which may have a bear- 

I 69] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL’ 


ing upon this murder you are investigating. If the 
Senhor will be seated/’ I added, as he indicated his 
willingness to listen, “the story is rather long for it 
begins as far back as a month ago in New York City.” 

Gravely with no apparent curiosity visible upon his 
serious countenance, he resumed his chair while I 
launched into an account of all the facts that I have 
related elsewhere. 

“And this skull, this bit of ivory, where is it now?” 
he asked when I had completed my tale. 

“I do not know,” I answered, “unless it is concealed 
on the person of the dead man.” 

“Impossible. I myself searched the body. There was 
no such skull upon him. In fact, he had been robbed 
of all his valuables; his rings, his studs, his watch, all 
have vanished.” 

“Robbed!” I was astounded. “But Parrish, if he 
proves to be the murderer, would hardly rob him!” 

“As a blind, Senhor?” 

“Perhaps,” I replied dubiously, then I brightened. 
“There is no doubt that he would take the skull.” 

The delegado nodded. “Let us return downstairs 
and see what my physician can tell us further in regard 
to this matter. I left him to examine the body with 
greater care after he had assured me that this was the 
dagger used in the commission of the crime.” 

[ 70 ] 


THE OFFICIAL INQUIRY 

In silence we descended the stairs and crossed the 
hall to the library where the doctor rose to meet us and 
pointed dramatically to the body of Ramalho, which 
now lay upon the floor. 

On his face was a look such as is only seen on the 
countenances of the damned; and on his chest, seared 
into the flesh by the action of some powerful chemical, 
was the imprint of a tiny human skull! 


[7i] 


CHAPTER VII 


AN EMINENT DETECTIVE 

The next morning Tom returned, and having heard 
all that I could tell him, he assumed at once entire 
responsibility and undertook to see that the delegado’s 
orders were carried out. As for myself I returned to 
my task of cataloguing curiosities though not with the 
same enthusiasm which I had previously brought to 
bear upon the subject. My mind persisted in revert¬ 
ing to the mystery of Ramalho’s death, and I found 
myself continually wondering whether I had done right 
to cast suspicion upon Parrish. 

That evening Tom entered the library and sitting 
down beside me shook his head in dismal fashion. Com¬ 
passionately I noted how gray and flabby his face had 
become and how heavily he walked as though all the 
sunshine and joy had been suddenly removed from his 
world. 

“It’s a damnable business,” he said slowly, “a 
damnable business. And the worst of it is that I be¬ 
lieve that Judith is mixed up in it in some way. That 
dagger, Tony, was not Duarte’s.” 

[ 72 ] 


AN EMINENT DETECTIVE 

'Whose then, Tom?” I asked, aghast, pushing my 
notebook from me and giving him my undivided atten¬ 
tion. 

"Originally it belonged to Neville, but I think he 
either gave it or loaned it to Judith the last time he 
was here,” answered Tom wearily. "In any event she 
had it last and she wanted him dead-” 

"No, Tom, I won’t believe that she killed him. She’s 
an excitable, high-tempered girl, and people often say 
things they don’t mean at all when they are roused,” I 
pointed out. "I can’t imagine any woman having the 
courage to put the body into the urn. I’d be more in¬ 
clined to think that Neville did it.” 

Tom shifted impatiently. "Then there is Helena. 
When I think that perhaps she-” 

"Tom!” I exclaimed. "What are you saying? She 
was with me-” 

"Good gracious, man, I’m not insinuating that she 
killed him,” he interrupted curtly. 

"Then what?” 

Tom lifted his hands despairingly. "I wish I knew, 
Tony. When I mentioned what you told me about 
Duarte’s receiving that skull she almost fainted from 
terror and begged me on her knees to drop the matter. 
If I meddled some dire calamity would befall us. That 
is all I can get out of her.” He turned a pair of haggard 
eyes upon me. "Tony, I can’t stand it. I’ve got to 

[ 73 ] 





THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

know what Helena has to do with this thing. If there 
were only some way to get to the bottom of the matter.” 

“The police-” 

He negatived the suggestion. “They’re all alike the 
world over. They’ll spend their time hunting for Par¬ 
rish and when he is tried and cleared, for it’s my opinion 
he didn’t have a thing to do with it, why the police will 
drop the matter just as the New York police dropped 
the affair of Garcia.” 

There was a pause and then Tom banged his fist on 
the table emphatically. “Tony, I’m going to see this 
thing through to the end. I am not going to allow a 
murder to be committed in my house and permit the 
murderer to go scotfree. I am going to clear up this 
affair somehow. I intend to employ a detective and 
I only wish I knew of one sufficiently renowned to send 
for him. I don’t care who he is or how far I have to 
go to get him, so long as he’ll guarantee to solve this 
mystery for me.” 

“You won’t have to go far afield, Tom. There’s an 
eminent detective right within call and he’s an Ameri¬ 
can, to boot.” 

I fished into the scrap basket and pulled out the 
Jornal do Commercio. Marking a paragraph which I 
had noted casually in my perusal of the paper after 
luncheon, I handed it to Tom. He took it from me, 

[ 74] 



AN EMINENT DETECTIVE 

fumbled in his pockets, declared he had left his read¬ 
ing glasses upstairs, and returned the paper to me. 

“Read it, Tony,” he commanded. “Let’s hear what 
the Jornal has to say for an American detective.” 

I complied with the request. 

“We take great pleasure in announcing to the public 
the presence in our city of one of the foremost investi¬ 
gators of crime that the world has known, Senhor Gray- 
don McKelvie of New York,” I read. “In his inter¬ 
view with the gentlemen of the press, however, Senhor 
McKelvie was careful to make the distinction that he 
is interested in the solution of a crime merely as a 
hobby and not as a profession, and only in those in¬ 
stances which appeared to him to warrant the ex¬ 
penditure of his powers upon them. He is a guest of 
Auitonio Diago, the distinguished head of the Metropoli¬ 
tan Police.” 

“A hobbyist,” exclaimed Tom in disgust as I put 
down the paper. “I want a detective.” 

“What’s the difference what he calls himself as long 
as he solves the problem,” I retorted. 

“If he is so particular will he be likely to consider 
our case?” continued Tom, gloomily. 

“There is no harm in asking him, Tom. Besides it 
would be a pity to pass up an opportunity ready made 
for us. I never believe in throwing back into their 
teeth a gift of the gods.” 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“Perhaps you’re right. We’ll call on this gentleman 
in the morning.” 

“Why not now, Tom?” 

“My dear Tony, will you never learn that the even¬ 
ings were designed for pleasure and not for business?” 
he replied a little wearily. 

The following morning directly after breakfast Tom 
phoned for his chauffeur and we drove around the Beira 
Mar to the Praia Botafogo where the chief of police 
dwelt in a beautiful pink house that looked like a mam¬ 
moth birthday cake set in a garland of ferns. We were 
admitted to the reception-room on the first floor and 
while we awaited McKelvie’s presence Tom moved rest¬ 
lessly about the big room unable to take his mind from 
his own troubles and admire with me the rare paintings 
with which the wall was hung. After some five min¬ 
utes he spoke abruptly: 

“What is he like, this man?” he inquired. 

“I don’t know,” I returned absent-mindedly, trying 
to decide whether the picture before me was a genuine 
Turner. 

“Is he old or young? For mercy’s sake, Tony, pay 
attention to what I’m saying,” Tom exclaimed irritably, 
perching upon the extreme edge of a high-back walnut 
chair. 

“I don’t know a thing about him,” I replied patiently, 
“except that I have heard the name mentioned once or 
[ 76 ] 


AN EMINENT DETECTIVE 

twice in connection with some mysterious crime which 
he had satisfactorily solved, from which I should judge 
that he can’t be so very young.” 

Mentally I prayed that he would take the case for if 
one night of torturing anxiety could turn Tom from a 
genial fellow into a bear, it was time that something 
serious was done about the matter. Being practically 
an outsider and a fairly self-centered person I failed 
to grasp the fact that Tom would naturally be affected 
by the tragic death of a member of his family. 

The sound of steps in the hall caused us both to look 
expectantly toward the door, for I was as curious as 
Tom to meet this man upon whom we had determined 
to pin our hopes. My first glance was one of decided 
disappointment. From his reputation and the egotistical 
tone of the write up I had judged him to be middle- 
aged, and probably overbearing. The man who came 
toward us inquiringly was young, about thirty, a pleas¬ 
ant every-day sort of person whose only claim to dis¬ 
tinction lay in the determined set of his jaw and in the 
brilliance of his black eyes, eyes so keen as to give one 
the uncanny impression that one’s inmost thoughts lay 
revealed to their gaze. But the moment he asked what 
he could do for us I forgot my disappointment. The 
rich, mellow voice, deep and clear as a bell, held assur¬ 
ance of power and a promise that he was the one man 
to help us in our need. How to interest him sufficiently 

[ 77 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

in our case to secure his aid was the task that I now 
took upon myself at Tom’s request and a harder one I 
have not encountered this many a long day. 

He listened courteously enough, for he was always 
the gentleman, to my somewhat involved and lengthy 
explanation, but when I was through I realized that I 
had failed in my attempt and that my story had made 
no very great impression upon him. In his eyes it was 
as commonplace as a reproduction of a genuine master¬ 
piece would be in mine. 

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he remarked, rising to in¬ 
dicate that we had trespassed longer than good man¬ 
ners allowed upon his patience, “but at present I am 
on my vacation and I am not overanxious to exert my¬ 
self unless it be in the way of amusement.” 

“My dear sir,” I hastened to point out, “for you a 
case of this sort would come under the head of amuse¬ 
ment.” 

“Professor Potter honors me beyond my meed,” he 
retorted, bowing low. Then dropping his railing man¬ 
ner he added with a tone of finality in his flexible voice, 
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot take the 
case.” 

“Don’t say that, Mr. McKelvie,” begged Tom, 
desperately. He had been listening to our colloquy 
with his head bowed in his hands as if our conversation 
had no possible interest for him, but now he got to his 
[ 78 ] 


AN EMINENT DETECTIVE 

feet, suddenly alive to the necessity of making this very 
cool and distant young man realize that in him alone 
lay our hope of securing a solution to the mystery sur¬ 
rounding Ramalho’s death. “If you only knew how 
the uncertainty, how the horrible thought that even my 
wife may be mixed up in this murder in some way, is 
driving me frantic you would in mercy give me your 
aid.” 

“Mr. Clinton,” responded McKelvie, letting his keen 
eyes rest a moment on Tom’s haggard face, “when you 
appeal to my humanity I am tempted to say yes. But 
unfortunately my hands are tied. I cannot take the 
case.” 

“Think of the glory, the prestige that will be yours,” 
I interjected, hoping to touch his vanity. “The press 
will acclaim you from one end of the country to the 
other.” 

The scornful curl of his lip, the sudden flash of fire 
from his eye were sufficient evidence that he cared noth¬ 
ing for fame, or glory, or anything else of that nature 
which I might have enumerated. 

“Professor Potter judges me by himself, perhaps?” 
he inquired cuttingly, then continued sternly: “Sir, do 
you think I care a snap of my fingers for the world’s 
opinion of me? If I would not take the case in mercy 
to Mr. Clinton, do you think I would stoop to take it 

[ 79 ] 



THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


for the petty, sordid reasons you have tried to flatter 
me with?” 

He turned from me to Tom and spoke less vehement¬ 
ly, “Mr, Clinton, I would take the case if I could. I 
am a guest of the Chief of Police. As he has made no 
mention whatsoever of the matter to me, I cannot under 
the circumstances attempt to solve this mystery over 
the heads of the men to whom he has intrusted its 
solution.” 

“I know Diago personally,” declared Tom with the 
eagerness of a boy. “If I gain his consent to put you 
on the case will you help us, Mr. McKelvie?” 

McKelvie inclined his dark head. “I shall be only 
too glad to be of service to you,” he responded amiably. 
“If you will wait just a moment while I get my hat I’ll 
drive to police headquarters with you.” 

At the door he paused and caught my eye. “To 
the greater glory of the name, McKelvie,” he said 
satirically. 

“To its greater glory,” I responded, saluting him. 

He came back and held out his hand. “You’re a 
good sport, Professor,” he remarked with a humorous 
twinkle, as I accepted the olive branch. 

The Central police station was situated in the heart 
of the city and as we drove inland passing rapidly from 
one street to another we were unusually silent, simply 
because Tom was engrossed in his own thoughts and 
[So] 


AN EMINENT DETECTIVE 

McKelvie hinted politely that he preferred to study the 
surrounding scenery. To keep myself from theorizing 
about a case of which I knew so very little I amused 
myself by watching the impassive face of my new ac¬ 
quaintance, wondering what was going on in the brain 
behind those eyes that darted lightninglike from one 
object to another along the streets, thinking that per¬ 
haps his attitude was merely a pose. 

“What do you think of him, Professor Potter ?” Mc¬ 
Kelvie inquired suddenly. 

I blinked stupidly. “Think of whom?’ , I asked. 

“Genus homo, species McKelvie,” he responded with 
an amused laugh. 

I reddened uncomfortably not knowing exactly how 
to retort. Before I could gather my wits he added, 
“You needn’t trouble to expound. You have an in¬ 
genuous countenance, Professor, and my eyesight hap¬ 
pens to be particularly good. You want to learn the 
art of concealing your thoughts, to wear ever as I do 
a sphinxlike expression.” 

“It is unfortunate that we are not all as blessed as 
yourself in the latter regard,” I returned tartly, an¬ 
noyed by his egotism. 

He lifted his brows and shook his head. “You really 
shouldn’t try it,” he said slowly. “It hardly becomes 
your gray hairs and dignified appearance, Professor. 

[81] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

Besides I am apt to cavil at sarcasm. My prerogative 
entirely you must understand.” 

The twinkle in his eyes robbed the words of any of¬ 
fense and I smiled in spite of myself. 

“Something tells me that we shall part friends after 
all, Professor,” he assured me gravely as we stopped 
before Police Headquarters and such was the charm 
of his personality that I agreed with the impudent beg¬ 
gar on the spot. 


[82] 


CHAPTER VIII 


BY PERMISSION OF THE CHIEF 

We were ushered immediately into the presence of 
Antonio Diago, who rose from behind his desk to greet 
us with a pleasant smile and extended hands. After 
my introduction to him he waved us to chairs and draw¬ 
ing from his pocket his gold cigarette case offered it to 
us. When Tom declined Diago pushed over a box of 
cigars, then reseating himself at his desk, asked us 
what he could do for us. 

While Tom was explaining the circumstances I took 
stock of this man who was nominally, though not 
virtually since his position was a political one and he 
was more or less of a figurehead, although nothing 
could be done without his consent and approval— 
nominally responsible for the policing of this city whose 
inhabitants were of many diverse nationalities and all 
more or less of inflammable temperaments. A stranger 
who did not know his profession would have taken him 
for a member of the diplomatic corps rather than of the 
police force. His imposing bearing, his polished man¬ 
ners, the air of distinction loaned to his ascetic face by 

[83] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


his gray hair and neatly trimmed imperial, proclaimed 
him the type of man that any nation would be proud 
to send as her representative to a foreign country. In 
fact, if I remember correctly, he had served Brazil in 
that capacity at the Court of St. James not so very 
many years before so that I was not greatly surprised 
to discover that he spoke English with a fluency and 
flawlessness that put to shame my own attempts to ex¬ 
press myself concisely in my native tongue. 

As McKelvie did not understand Portuguese the in¬ 
terview was conducted in English, and at the conclusion 
of Tom’s narrative Diago turned to his guest. “A thou¬ 
sand apologies, my friend. I did not suggest that you 
take the case because you gave me to understand that 
you were bored with mysteries and desired nothing bet¬ 
ter than to be allowed to forget their very existence.” 

McKelvie lifted slender shoulders. “Such was my 
hope but— You know my inability to resist an 
appeal.” 

The hint of a smile played about the chief’s firm lips 
as he replied: “Will it afford you pleasure then to solve 
this mystery for Mr. Clinton?” 

“Both pleasure and profit,” answered McKelvie with 
a side glance at me. “But I do not wish to deprive your 
subordinates of the glory of solving the case for them¬ 
selves.” 

“Tut, they will be delighted to share with you any 

[ 84] 


BY PERMISSION OF THE CHIEF 


honors that are forthcoming and be most happy to assist 
you in any way that lies within their power,” Diago 
assured him warmly. 

“Thank you, Chief. I will not interfere with your 
men and when I reach a solution they are entirely wel¬ 
come to the credit,” was the young man’s disinterested 
reply. 

He was an anomaly, this man, egotistically proud of 
his ability, yet at the same time callously indifferent to 
worldly applause. 

The Chief bowed. “If there is anything I can do to 
serve you—” he hinted. 

“I should like to interview the delegado and his phy¬ 
sician,” interposed McKelvie crisply, assuming com¬ 
mand of the situation. 

Diago took a card from his desk, inscribed on it the 
words, “By permission of the Chief,” and handed it to 
McKelvie. Then he bade us “Good luck” and saw us 
to the door. 

When we were once more in the machine Tom broke 
the silence that had descended upon us. 

“I’ll drop you two at the precinct,” he said, “and 
send the car back for you. I do not like leaving Helena 
alone so long. If you can get along without me-” 

“Certainly. Professor Potter will be able to furnish 
any information that I may require,” responded Mc¬ 
Kelvie, smiling. 


[85] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


At the precinct the delegado overwhelmed us with 
kindness. But, certainly he was delighted to have such 
a distinguished colleague working with him, anything 
McKelvie desired to know he would gladly find out for 
him. He would hold himself completely at our orders, 
and a good deal more in the* same strain which I trans¬ 
lated for McKelvie’s ty 

“Ask him if he i M^rstands English,” was Mc¬ 
Kelvie’s first command^ but unfortunately the delegado 
was acquainted only with his own tongue. 

“What a deuced awkward predicament,” murmured 
McKelvie, then to me, “Find out what evidence he col¬ 
lected from the scene of the crime.” 

The balance of the conversation was carried on with 
me as the mouthpiece, not an easy task since they kept 
me jumping from one language to the other. For the 
sake of clearness and brevity I shall record the inter¬ 
view as though it had been conducted solely between 
the two principals. 

In answer to McKelvie’s first query the delegado 
produced the dagger which he handed to the young man 
with the remark, “We found this weapon on the table 
in the library. As perhaps you will notice there is a 
smear of blood on the hilt but unfortunately it is not 
a finger-print. Do you not agree with me, Senhor?” 

The police officer set his eyes on McKelvie’s face 
with all the anxiety of a pupil who awaits the approba- 
[ 86 ] 


BY PERMISSION OF THE CHIEF 

tion of his master, and his hawklike countenance fairly 
beamed with pride when McKelvie concurred in the 
opinion that the smear was not a finger-print although 
it bore close resemblance to one in general shape and 
size. 

“That implies premeditation, of course,” McKelvie 
muttered, continuing to exam' e the hilt through half- 
closed lids, “which gives t.Lc case a more serious 
aspect.” 

“What makes you say that?” I asked. 

“Don’t you think so?” 

“How should I know? I’m not versed in such mat¬ 
ters.” 

“Use your powers of reasoning, man. Here’s a per¬ 
son killed by a dagger whose handle is innocent of 
finger-prints. The murderer was hardly likely to have 
held the weapon in his teeth, therefore he must have 
worn gloves, a conclusion borne out by the smear which 
is really a print without the identifying whorls. If he 
took the precaution to wear gloves, he must have come 
prepared to commit murder,” explained McKelvie 
tersely. He turned to the delegado. “Anything else 
of interest?” 

The official shook his head. “The window was open 
and so was the door as far as I could learn. That is 
all the evidence I have except that the dead man’s be¬ 
longings had been taken. His watch, his diamond 

[87] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

studs, and his ring are gone. Also the skull of which 
Professor Potter spoke is missing, therefore robbery 
may have been purely a blind. At least I am inclined 
to believe so.” 

“Very possibly. To whom does the dagger belong?” 

“To Ramalho. Of course it is not good manners to 
doubt a lady’s word,” he continued with a deprecating 
smile, “but I gathered the impression that the dagger 
did not belong to her husband even though she claimed 
that it did.” 

McKelvie raised his brows. “So. And what did 
you reason from that fact, Senhor?” 

The dele gad o shrugged and spread out his hands. 
“When a lady lies about the weapon that was used to 
kill her husband what does one deduce but a former 
lover, eh?” 

McKelvie disagreed. “My dear sir, never try to 
gauge a woman’s actions by the same standards that 
you would use to measure a man’s. Perhaps you are 
right and she has a former lover. Again she may have 
been shielding her brother. Still again she may have 
been frightened and meant nothing at all by her contra¬ 
dictory statements. I shall have to study her character 
first before I can judge rightly what her actions may 
or may not have meant. That is all, then?” 

“That is all except that my men are hunting for this 

[ 88 ] 


BY PERMISSION OF THE CHIEF 

man, Gilbert Parrish. Who knows but what I may be 
right and he turns out to be the lover, eh?” 

This time it was I that contradicted him. “Judith 
doesn’t even know of Parrish’s existence,” I declared. 

“Did she tell you so?” inquired McKelvie bluntly. 

“Why, no,” I was forced to confess. “But he seemed 
on such good terms with Ramalho.” 

“And you think a former lover would be more 
inimical?” McKelvie’s keen eyes wore an amused ex¬ 
pression as he spoke. 

“I’m no authority on the ways and manners of lov¬ 
ers,” I retorted peevishly. 

McKelvie put a hand on my shoulder. “I shouldn’t 
be at all surprised if you were right, Professor. And 
now, Senhor Deiegado, since our car has returned I 
shall be obliged if you will give me the address of your 
physician.” 

“Certainly, certainly.” He stepped to the door with 
us, gave the chauffeur his instructions, shook hands 
with us cordially and begged us to remember that he 
was entirely at our service. 

“Nice chap,” commented McKelvie as we drove to¬ 
ward the Carioca. “They are very obliging, these po¬ 
lice, but not so energetic as our own. He does not seem 
to have made much effort toward following up the clue 
of the dagger.” 

“Ladies, especially one of Judith’s standing, are 

[89] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

sacrosanct,” I reminded him. “One is not supposed to 
question their word.” 

“Is one supposed also to be struck blind and deaf in 
their presence?” he asked caustically. “There are 
more ways than one of skinning a cat, you know. By 
the way, to whom does the dagger belong?” 

I hesitated. He took me up abruptly. “If it is your 
purpose to withhold any evidence you may possess and 
which has any bearing whatsoever on the tragedy, I 
shall wash my hands of the affair right now. I am 
willing to do my best to satisfy your friend, but I’ll 
be hanged if I’ll submit to being handicapped by you, 
Professor.” 

I smiled tolerantly at his outburst. The shoe was 
on the other foot now. 

“I had no intention of withholding evidence,” I re¬ 
turned calmly. “But, naturally, I don’t want to be the 
one responsible for casting suspicion upon the girl.” 

“No one will accuse you of such a motive, Professor,” 
he returned in a lighter vein. “But be careful. Women 
are dangerous creatures to meddle with at any time.” 

“Aren’t you rather young to be a misogynist?” I 
asked in an endeavor to side-track him. 

He laughed. “No man is too young for that. With 
me, however, it’s a matter of self-protection. I like 
to be free to pick up and light out for parts unknown 
at will and what should I do with a wife in that event? 
[90] 


BY PERMISSION OF THE CHIEF 

But we are wandering far afield. To whom does the 
dagger belong?” 

“According to Tom it belongs to Judith, given or 
loaned to her by her brother, Neville,” I explained re¬ 
luctantly. “But how you guessed that I knew any¬ 
thing about it is more than I can fathom.” 

“It was not guess-work, Professor. I told you be¬ 
fore that you had better learn to control your facial 
expressions,” he replied. “When the delegado claimed 
that the dagger belonged to a former lover I saw your 
unconscious smile of superiority for his ignorance as 
you translated for my benefit. That told me all I 
needed to know, that and the way you expressed your¬ 
self. You said, ‘The delegado thinks that the dagger 
belonged to a former lover/ implying that you yourself 
knew quite differently.” 

“I don’t think there is much chance of my handi¬ 
capping you,” was my comment as we stopped before 
the building where Doctor Penna had his office. 

We ascended in the elevator to the third floor where 
we were admitted at once into the doctor’s private of¬ 
fice, a room filled with all kinds of curious reminders of 
cases in which he had been involved in his capacity as 
police physician. As in the case of the delegado , the 
chief’s card rendered the fat medico only too anxious 
to be of service, and fortunately for me, we soon dis¬ 
covered that he was acquainted with the English lan- 

[ 91 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

guage which he spoke if not as fluently as Diago at 
least well enough to be understood. 

“You have quite an interesting museum here, Doc¬ 
tor,” said McKelvie with a pleasant smile as soon as 
we were seated and the doctor had resumed his cigarette 
without which no Brazilian feels at ease. 

Penna’s florid face shone with pleasure. “Yes, me¬ 
mentos of former cases. Come in sometime and I’ll 
be glad to tell you something of their history.” 

“Thank you, Doctor. At present my interest lies 
in your latest connection with a crime. I understand 
that you made a post-mortem examination of the body 
of Ramalho. What was the cause of death?” 

In view of the fact that both the delegado and my¬ 
self had told McKelvie how Ramalho had died, this 
last question might seem superfluous, yet in reality it 
showed how very keen-witted this young man was and 
how well he was able to read character. Intuitively he 
had discerned what Gomez had told me; namely, that 
Brazilian police officials are most obliging when their 
authority is deferred to. And of course the doctor was 
presumably the person to whom to apply for informa¬ 
tion as to the exact cause which had resulted in death. 

The effect on the white-haired medico was magical. 
Eagerly the words poured from his lips as he told us 
all he had learned concerning the murder. In five min- 
[ 92 ] 


BY PERMISSION OF THE CHIEF 

utes we had secured more information than we could 
have done by a day’s officious questioning. 

Ramalho had been stabbed through the heart and 
had died instantly, some twenty minutes previous to 
my entrance into the room and not more than three- 
quarters of an hour before the arrival of the police. 
The doctor had examined the dagger and measured the 
wound and could state with definite assurance that the 
former was responsible for the latter. From the depth 
and the direction of the incision Dr. Penna felt justified 
in stating that the thrust had been fairly powerful and 
that the weapon had been held in the left hand. 

Intrigued by my account of the murder of Garcia, 
Dr. Penna had also taken the occasion to examine Ra- 
malho’s arm, curious to learn whether he, too, bore a 
tattoo mark. He had found traces that indicated that 
at one time the skin had been pricked with indelible 
pigments but what the pattern had been he could not 
make out. As Garcia had done, so Ramalho had tried 
to obliterate the mark, and as in the former case, there 
was present upon the chest the brand of the skull and 
upon the face, the stark, mad fear of a soul that is 
damned. 

In winding up, the doctor gave it as his opinion that 
both men belonged to a society of some sort, had turned 
traitor and had attempted to forget their obligations 
by removing the symbol of their order. As a result 

[ 93 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

death and branding had overtaken them. No doubt 
Parrish was the instrument of vengeance selected by 
the society in both cases. 

McKelvie thought this over for a few minutes. “Per¬ 
haps you are right, Doctor, as regards the society. It 
looks very much like the work of such a crowd, al¬ 
though one cannot be absolutely sure. However, this 
much I am certain of. Parrish was responsible for the 
murder of Garcia.” 

“But, good Heavens,” I gasped, “he was shown to be 
entirely innocent.” 

Why, I had sat at table with the man on shipboard, 
had talked to him and even approved of his courtship 
of the beautiful countess! I refused to believe him a 
murderer. Yes, I know I had been suspicious and won¬ 
dered if perhaps he might not have killed Ramalho, but 
that would have been an offense committed after I had 
met him and for which I could thereafter have ceased 
to know him. But to be told that I had hobnobbed with 
a man whose hands were stained with the blood of a 
fellow creature-! 

“Professor, this is the third time I have spoken to 
you,” McKelvie was saying comically when I finally 
took cognizance of his words. “I would be obliged if 
you would stop looking so horrified and answer my 
question.” 

[ 94 ] 



BY PERMISSION OF THE CHIEF 


But I could not get over the shock of this appalling 
discovery so ’quickly. How did McKelvie know? He 
was not connected with the case at the time. I must 
have proof. 

“He was shown to be innocent,” I persisted, follow¬ 
ing my own train of thought. 

“Are you talking about Parrish? If he is a member 
of a secret society I am only surprised that he was ever 
allowed to testify,” returned McKelvie carelessly. 
“What do you think, Doctor?” 

The doctor shrugged. “I should not have cared to 
have been in the shoes of that prominent man in New 
York who so conveniently supported the alibi,” he re¬ 
marked quietly. 

“But,” I objected stubbornly, “a man of such wealth, 
education, and political prominence as William K. 
Vardusi *would hardly go out of his way to shield a 
murderer!” 

A cynical smile flickered across McKelvie’s face. “If 
you belonged to a secret society and you were ordered 
to corroborate an alibi under pain of death I fancy that 
you wouldn’t stand upon the order of your going nor 
would you inquire too closely into the ethics of the 
situation,” he replied ironically. 

“But,” I began, bewildered. 

He broke in a trifle impatiently. “We are wasting 

[95] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

time. There is no particular use in rehashing an affair 
that has been shelved. Kindly answer my question, 
Professor. Is Parrish left-handed?” 

I wrinkled my brows in thought, then I answered 
candidly, “I never thought to notice.” 

McKelvie lifted his hands despairingly and looked 
across at the doctor who hid his smile behind an at¬ 
tempted puff of his cigarette. 

“The habit of observation, Professor, is one of the 
greatest assets a man can have,” said McKelvie. “Let 
me illustrate its value. If you could tell us at this 
moment that Parrish was right-handed we could elimi¬ 
nate him from the case directly. As it is we must go 
to the trouble of finding him to judge for ourselves.” 

“Why not assume that he is left-handed,” I retorted 
for I was piqued at his tone. “If he killed Garcia it’s 
quite on the cards that he killed Ramalho, too.” 

“Ah, but did he? I am inclined to think that he did 
not.” 

“Why not?” asked the doctor curiously. 

“Because in the newspaper accounts of the murder 
of Garcia no mention was made that the thrust of the 
dagger was in any way extraordinary. Had the crime 
been committed by a left-handed person the doctors 
would have given the police that very valuable clue. 
So observation tells me then that in all probability Par- 
[ 96 ] 


BY PERMISSION OF THE CHIEF 


rish is right-handed,” McKelvie explained with a mali¬ 
cious smile. 

“Then why trouble to hunt for Parrish if you are so 
cock-sure that your deductions are right,” I growled, 
disgusted to think that he would stoop to show up my 
ignorance in order that his own powers might be en¬ 
hanced by the contrast. 

“Because, Professor, the press is not always accurate 
and all of us are liable to make mistakes. I asked you 
the question not to confound you but merely to verify 
my own impressions. Besides there are some questions 
I should like to ask Parrish and the police may as well 
save me the trouble of locating him,” he added non¬ 
chalantly, his eyes on my face. 

I said nothing. I was ashamed of my unjust ap¬ 
praisal yet I lacked the courage to tell him how well 
he had read my thoughts, and apologize for them. See¬ 
ing that I had no intention of speaking he rose and held 
out his hand to the doctor. I knew that he was smiling, 
not openly, just the merest twitching of his mobile lips, 
as he thanked Penna for his kindness. Strangely 
enough I was not offended, I who was always very much 
upon my dignity and ready to take offense at the least 
implication; rather was my liking for this frank and 
unusual man increased by his very audacity. 

As before he read my thoughts, which in this in¬ 
stance would not have been difficult since my face 

[ 97 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


showed plainly that I was not in any way displeased. 
When we were once more in the car, he turned to me 
and held out his hand. “I said so before, and I stick to 
it. You’re a good sport, Professor. And now, I am 
ready to visit the scene of the crime.” 


[ 98 ] 


CHAPTER IX 


A CLUE 

As we entered the driveway of Tom’s home Mc- 
Kelvie spoke for the first time since leaving the doctor’s 
office. I, too, had preserved silence, not from choice 
but from necessity. He was deaf to all my attempts 
at conversation. 

“Is this the only other entrance to the garden?” he 
inquired, nodding toward the small filigree gate which 
gave ingress to a gravel path which ran parallel to the 
drive as far as the house and then branched off to 
meander at will through the garden proper. 

“There is a rear entrance for the servants,” I an¬ 
swered. “It leads from the back-yard into the alley- 
way.” 

“Kindly request the chauffeur to stop the car,” he 
commanded, tersely, giving no indication whatsoever 
that he had heard my reply. “I prefer to walk to the 
house. You needn’t feel obliged to accompany me, 
Professor.” 

But I was far too curious to discover how he would 
go about solving the murder to abandon him at the 

[ 99 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


very outset of the investigation. I ordered the car 
stopped and alighted with him. 

I expected that we would set out for the house at 
once but McKelvie seemed in no great hurry, rather 
sauntered along the drive as he took a briar-pipe and 
a tobacco pouch from his pocket. As his slender fingers 
busied themselves in filling the bowl his eyes darted 
swiftly from flower-bed to flower-bed taking in the 
gorgeous profusion of color so boldly flaunted against 
a background of emerald foliage, for in the tropics 
nature is lavish with her brush, painting with an 
abandon engendered by the immensity of her canvas, 
since here shrubs are trees and trees the giants of the 
forest. 

The day was warm, bright, and the air heavy with 
the perfume of orange blossoms wafted to us from the 
trees that lined the wall at the far end of the garden. 
Not a sound broke the stillness of the morning except 
the drowsy humming of bees in the honeysuckle arbor 
or the occasional twitter of a humming-bird as it darted 
lightninglike from rose-bush to rose-bush, then swept, 
a flash of blue, to hover among the dark green, leathery 
leaves of the oleander while it sipped the nectar from 
the pink and white clusters. So very quiet and peace¬ 
ful was the scene before us that the reason for Mc- 
Kelvie’s presence was made the more incongruous. The 
tragedy was a figment of my brain. Such was the feel- 

[ IOO ] 


A CLUE 


ing that obsessed me. Nothing so crude, so startlingly 
out of place could possibly have occurred to mar the 
serenity of this home. 

With something very like a sigh, perhaps he too was 
thinking how much pleasanter to sit and dream among 
the blossoms than to attempt the solution of a case 
which could only lead to revelations which were better 
not disclosed, McKelvie slipped his pouch into his 
pocket and lighted his pipe. Then he continued slowly 
toward the house, glancing from time to time along the 
edges of the drive where it merged into the lawn. At 
the comer of the house he suddenly stooped and ex¬ 
amined the ground attentively. 

I thought he had forgotten my presence but now he 
called to me excitedly. His eyes were shining as he 
pointed to something on the driveway. Bending down 
I saw that the object was the butt of a cigarette, or 
more accurately what was once the butt of a cigarette, 
for the paper had split and the tobacco been scattered 
about. 

“Aren’t human beings the inconsistent creatures?’’ 
he remarked with a pleased chuckle. “Take the crimi¬ 
nal in this case, for instance. He is clever enough to 
wear gloves and hide the body, yet he leaves us as a 
souvenir of his presence this bit of paper and tobacco.” 

“I suppose this is all very lucid to you, but for my 
part I don’t quite appreciate how you can be so certain 

[ IOI ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


that this particular cigarette was left by the murderer. 
It may have lain there for days or it may have been 
dropped last night by Tom or one of the servants,” I 
objected. 

“Those are possibilities,” he admitted, “but not 
probabilities. Why? Examine this butt and you will 
readily find the answer.” 

I looked at the object of our discussion again but to 
me it was no different from thousands of other cigarette 
stubs except that it was no longer intact. I said as 
much. 

He smiled. “The value of observation, my dear sir. 
To me this is a profitable clue for it tells me much. In 
the first place it is an imported cigarette. Russian. 
The tobacco betrays that fact. We can therefore elimi¬ 
nate the servants. They are hardly likely to smoke so 
expensive a brand.” As he talked he knelt down and 
gathered the tobacco and the paper into an old envelope 
which he took from his pocket and which he then placed 
in his wallet for safe-keeping. “In the second place,” 
he continued, rising and dusting off the knee of his trou¬ 
sers, “the paper has become wet and has then been 
dried by the sun which has caused it to become so 
brittle that it opened of itself. That would imply that 
the stub had been lying here during a rainstorm. 
There was a heavy shower late the night of the murder 
and it has not rained since. Inference that whoever 
[ 102 ] 


A CLUE 


dropped it must have done so the night of the fifteenth, 
presumably before the murder since he would not in 
all probability stop to smoke after his commission of 
the crime.” 

“No,” I returned, unconvinced, “your last statement 
is far from logical. Tom smokes and he may have flung 
it there-” 

“A week ago? The gardener or whoever sweeps the 
drive would have gathered it up before this,” he inter¬ 
rupted impatiently. “I think you will find that the 
garden has been neglected since the murder. Some of 
those flower-beds are sadly in need of pruning. Besides 
Mr. Clinton smokes only cigars.” 

I stared at him in amazement. How had he managed 
to collect so much data in so short a space of time? He 
had seen Tom a bare half hour. And then it came to 
me. In declining the chief of police’s offer of cigarettes, 
Tom had mentioned casually that he only smoked 
cigars. McKelvie had not appeared to be listening, yet 
no single detail had escaped him. Just as he had noted 
that the garden needed attention even as he admired 
the view. But had he been admiring the view? 

“If you will come out of your trance, Professor, I 
should like to be shown the window that opens into the 
library.” 

The words were like a dash of cold water in my face. 

11 ° 31 



THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


I led the way past the front of the house in nettled 
silence. 

“The first window to the left of the main entrance 
which faces toward the side and not the front of the 
garden,” he mused aloud as we entered the room. “The 
window was open, you say?” 

“According to the police. I didn’t notice myself,” I 
said stiffly. 

He gave me a quick glance from beneath raised 
brows, then he laughed softly to himself. 

“If we are going to part friends, Professor, you will 
have to be magnanimous,” he began conversationally, 
settling himself comfortably in the swivel chair at the 
head of the table. “When I am working on a case I 
am apt to forget such trifles as difference in age and 
point of view. I look upon you all as puppets who must 
dance to my piping until such time as I have worked 
my way clear to a solution of the crime. You must not 
then take umbrage at my tone or manner. Come, let 
us make a compact. I’ll furnish the brains and you 
whatever aid lies within your power. Is it a bargain, 
Professor?” 

He had been gazing idly about the room as he spoke 
but now he held out his hand with such a winning smile 
that despite the left-handed compliment he paid me, I 
hastened to return his friendly clasp, my previous 

[ 104 ] 


A CLUE 


rancor forgotten under the spell of his voice and per- 
sonality. 

At this moment Cesario approached the door and an¬ 
nounced in a voice that trembled that luncheon was 
served. Evidently he had no desire to linger near the 
scene of the crime. The words had barely left his 
mouth when he had vanished down the hall. 

McKelvie smiled indulgently. “Poor fellow. Be¬ 
tween superstition and terror he is in a bad way.” 

In the hall we were met by Tom who escorted Mc¬ 
Kelvie into the dining-room and introduced him to the 
assembled family. I saw the black eyes take quick 
appraisal of each face as McKelvie was presented, nor 
did I imagine that it would take him very long to dis¬ 
cover the salient characteristics of each, since no two 
of them seemed to be affected in the same manner by 
the tragedy. Tom wore a worried, harassed look as 
though he were more troubled by what he had deter¬ 
mined yet dreaded to find out than by the actual death 
of his brother-in-law. Maria Theresa was pale, dis¬ 
traught, nervous, Dona Helena more frightened than 
sad while Judith’s haggard eyes held a world of misery 
in their gray depths. Only Ricardo was himself, boy¬ 
like glorying in the sudden excitement, as yet too young 
to understand the true significance of the deed. 

After luncheon, a dismal attempt at a meal on the 
part of most of those present, Tom asked me whether 

[ 105 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


I would mind taking charge of the investigation since 
he could not neglect his business and in all probability 
McKelvie would need someone on hand to answer 
questions and to introduce him to those persons whom 
he might wish to interview. Gladly I acceded to Tom’s 
wishes not only because I was myself intensely inter¬ 
ested in discovering the murderer of Ramalho but also 
because I could see that my assumption of this duty 
would lift a load from his mind. Hardly had I promised 
when Dona Helena drew me aside. 

“Senhor,” she said in a low tone, “I wish you would 
use your influence with Tom to make him give up this 
inquiry.” 

“Why, Dona Helena?” I asked. Standing thus, close 
to her, I could see how uneasy she was. Her full red 
lips were trembling despite her effort to control them, 
and her beautiful brown eyes were dark with tears. 

“Because I am afraid. If anything should happen to 
Tom—” Her voice broke on the words. 

“Nothing is going to happen to Tom,” I said reassur¬ 
ingly. “He has given me full charge so if there is any 
danger to be run it is I, not he, who will bear the brunt 
of it. And there is no one to care much whether I live 
or die, you know,” I added, lightly. 

“Oh, Senhor,” she whispered, crossing herself. “Do 
not jest about death. It is too serious a matter for that. 
I wish you would give up the case.” 

[106] 


A CLUE 


“But, don’t you want to know who killed your 
brother?” I persisted, trying to discover what she had 
in mind. 

“No, I don’t. It may make trouble for us and it can¬ 
not bring him back.” She shuddered involuntarily. 
“Be careful, Senhor. Someone has just walked over 
my grave. It is an omen. Do not disregard it.” 

I smiled at her childishness in believing the old super¬ 
stition that an involuntary shudder proclaims the 
passage of some person across one’s unmarked grave, 
and telling her I would take good care of myself, I 
begged her to excuse me. Then I followed McKelvie 
into the library. 

“An interesting family, quite well worth studying,” 
he remarked, refilling his pipe. “Judith, particularly. 
The others are fairly transparent. Mr. Clinton is wor¬ 
rying about what his wife may or may not know and 
she in her turn is terrified that some harm may come 
to him. Maria Theresa, too, seems to have forgotten 
her brother in her anxiety over her lover. Neville St. 
John, you said his name was? He will bear interview¬ 
ing. But Judith is different. She has something on her 
mind which we must try to discover, something besides 
the horror and remorse that she is suffering at her hus¬ 
band’s tragic end. But more of this later. It is time 
to get down to work.” 

He strolled to the window where he stood looking out 

[ io7 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


over the garden and blowing smoke-rings as though he 
had no other interest in the world than that of achiev¬ 
ing a perfect circle. This attitude was hardly compati¬ 
ble with his last statement. I grew impatient. 

“Really, Mr. McKelvie—” I began, but he held up 
a slender hand to enjoin silence. 

“Patience. Let me think it out first,” he exclaimed 
curtly. 

Evidently he was not to be hurried nor did he seem to 
take account of time as a factor in solving his problem. 
Thus easily had he fallen a victim to the spell of the 
tropics where time is of no moment and a pleasant 
languor deadens the senses to the obligations of the 
hour. Or so I believed. Later I found that he had 
his own reasons for standing so long at that window. 

I had about reached the limit of my patience when 
he finally turned back into the room, and I watched 
him in silence as he examined the floor with minute at¬ 
tention. Gradually his search carried him from the 
window to the urn beside the door and I joined him as 
he remained looking down speculatively upon the huge 
receptacle. Made of terra-cotta it was shaped like an 
enormous jardiniere. It stood two feet from the floor 
and was of sufficient girth so that one could hide in it 
with no discomfort by assuming a crouching position. 
The lid, which lay on the floor in three pieces, was made 
of the same material as the urn. It had been slightly 
[ i°8 ] 


A CLUE 


convex and had a ring at the top by which one could 
lift it. As it did not weigh more than ten pounds the 
murderer could not have found it a very difficult feat 
to remove it from the jar. I had seen Tom’s son lift it 
to the floor with no apparent trouble. 

McKelvie eyed the urn frowningly and I guessed that 
it had roused a train of thought for which he could not 
at the moment find a suitable explanation. 

“Strange,” he remarked as he bent over to examine 
the interior. “Something important, in Judith’s eyes 
at least, must have been in this urn, but what the deuce 
could it have been and how did it get in here?” 

“I don’t follow you.” 

“Judith had to have a reason for lifting the lid of 
the urn,” he answered, his voice echoing oddly within 
the receptacle as he hung over the edge with his head 
almost touching the bottom. “It is preposterous to 
suppose that she was looking for her husband.” 

“By jove,” I said slowly. I had been so taken up 
with the tragedy that such an idea had never even 
obtruded itself upon me. I had just accepted Judith’s 
statement as a matter of course, but I now realized that 
if the lid had been on the urn, as presumably it was, 
she must have had some incentive for raising it since as 
McKelvie pointed out she could hardly have been look¬ 
ing for her husband. The notion that she might have 
killed Ramalho I had discarded in view of the fact that 

[ 109 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


she was not strong enough to have placed the body in 
the urn. 

By this time McKelvie had emerged from the re¬ 
ceptacle somewhat red of face but with the frown erased 
from his brow. He drew up a chair to the table and 
motioned me to a seat. 

“Well?” I inquired. “What was it that was in the 
urn?” 

“I’m not so sure. I have a theory but I must test it 
first before I can give it to you as an actual fact. Let 
us drop that side of the inquiry for the time being and 
reconstruct the crime from the known data as we have 
it so far.” 


[ no] 


CHAPTER X 


RECONSTRUCTION 

"I have been gathering my information at random 
from various sources, a procedure which is not con¬ 
ducive to clarity of thought,” began McKelvie, draw¬ 
ing contentedly on his pipe. “For that reason I am 
going to trespass on your indulgence and repeat briefly 
what we know so far, beginning with a certain happen¬ 
ing in New York.” 

“There is no necessity to apologize. I shall be glad 
to have the case presented as a whole.” 

“Very well, then. A month and a half ago a Bra¬ 
zilian, Benjamin Garcia, was found murdered in his 
room at the Hotel Magnificent. On the strength of the 
testimony gathered from various witnesses Gilbert Par¬ 
rish was asked to attend the inquest and was about to 
be remanded for trial when William K. Vardusi came 
forward with an alibi which caused the police to release 
the suspected man. Am I right so far?” 

“Yes, except that you have made no mention of the 
brand.” 

“I’ll take that up in good time. You were taken 

t in ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

aback when I claimed to know that Parrish had stabbed 
Garcia. I really didn’t know it as an actual fact, but 
the evidence is such that any other deduction would be 
puerile. Here is a man of extraordinary appearance— 
how many men in New York limp and have semi¬ 
circular scars on their cheeks besides having a foreign 
air? To assume that two such men exist is stretching 
probability; but to say that two such men were at the 
hotel that night is to pull entirely out of joint the long- 
suffering arm of coincidence. So we can safely deduce 
that Parrish was with Garcia at the time of the murder 
and therefore he was the one who committed the deed. 
The question is why? And why did Vardusi, a man 
of probity and integrity, alibi him?” 

“Because they all belonged to the same secret so¬ 
ciety. I thought you agreed with Penna when he made 
that plain to us,” I returned, somewhat surprised at his 
questions. 

He smiled and shook his head. “I didn’t agree. I 
only said perhaps. I was allowing Penna to amuse 
himself as a shield to keep him from probing too closely 
into my own ideas. It is not always well to tell every¬ 
one what one knows.” 

“But—” I remarked, wrinkling my brow. He put 
up a house of cards and knocked it down so swiftly 
that I did not even secure the barest glimpse of his 
drift. 

[ ] 


RECONSTRUCTION 

He continued imperturbably, though there was a 
twinkle in his eyes for my obtuseness. “The theory of 
a secret society is all very well as far as it goes but I 
can explode it with two remarks. One, Vardusi is not 
the type of man who belongs to such an organization; 
and two, Gilbert Parrish, according to your own ac¬ 
count, became frightfully exercised at the bare mention 
of the skull. If he were a member in good standing 
why should he fear the symbol of the order?” 

“He might have turned traitor,” I suggested. 

“Traitors are not intrusted with commissions. No, 
no. This is not the work of a secret society. Whatever 
reason Parrish had for killing Garcia, he was sufficient¬ 
ly in the right to cause Vardusi to step down from his 
high pedestal.” 

“What about the brand and the tattoo?” I asked. 

“Garcia was branded after he was dead. Perhaps 
Parrish branded him; perhaps some other person used 
the skull. I do not know. The tattoo is a different mat¬ 
ter and a third reason for discarding the secret society 
theory. I have been in Italy and I have studied the 
methods of most of these organizations. Tattooing is 
too conspicuous to suit them. It is more likely to be 
the symbol of some promise between two or three men. 
Parrish, Garcia, Ramalho, and doubtless a fourth un¬ 
known. Garcia proved false to his trust and he died. 

[ 113 1 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


Ramalho the same.” He shrugged and paused to 
relight his pipe. 

“That is all mere speculation. Let’s get back to the 
realm of facts. That both Garcia and Ramalho at¬ 
tempted to deface the tattoo shows that both men knew 
pretty well what to expect in case they did fail to keep 
their agreement, and therefore they presumably tried 
to hide their identity. I do not believe that Garcia 
registered under his true name, and I shall presently try 
to find out all I can concerning Ramalho’s past. With 
diabolical cunning the avenger sent his victims notifica¬ 
tion of their death sentence. Think what that means, 
Professor. To live forever in fear and dread; not to 
know when or how but to know that at some time when 
you are talking to a friend or perhaps riding through 
the city, the knife of the assassin will find its mark in 
your heart. What a fiend the fellow must be to evolve 
such a scheme for satiating his desire for vengeance! ” 

“I’d rather not conjure up so terrible an image. Why 
do you believe that Parrish did not kill Ramalho also?” 
I replied to change the gruesome topic. 

“Because this murder is so much more skillfully done. 
No blunt weapon used. By the way, I do not agree 
with the police physician who claimed that Garcia had 
been stabbed from behind. Such a theory is absurd on 
the face of it.” 

“Why?” 

t ini 


RECONSTRUCTION 

“What about the look on Garcia’s face? If he had 
been stabbed from behind he would not have known 
who killed him, he would have been dead before his 
consciousness could grasp the fact that he had been 
stabbed.” 

“Then there are two avengers?” I was becoming 
more and more perplexed. 

“No, not necessarily. Parrish may have been an 
emissary, the tool of the dominant mind behind these 
crimes. And we may find that in this case, too, another 
hand than that of the avenger is responsible for the 
actual deed. But all this is beside the point. To get 
back to the present. Ramalho was so affected by the 
sight of the skull that he determined on flight. That 
is another point to look into. Why did the avenger 
risk losing the skull by sending it to the victim? Or 
is that but one of many such curios?” 

“The skull sent to Ramalho was the same as the one 
I picked up on the deck of the ship, I’m pretty certain,” 
I responded. 

“Which makes it all the more complicated, and in¬ 
credible.” He pulled meditatively on his pipe for a 
space before he resumed, “While Ramalho was hesitat¬ 
ing, Parrish called upon him and succeeded in lessening 
his fears to such an extent that by the time dinner was 
over Ramalho had sufficiently recovered his self-pos¬ 
session to think of spending the evening away from 

[ IIS ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


home, or so I should judge from the reported conversa¬ 
tion between husband and wife. He descended the 
stairs and twenty minutes later you were startled by 
Judith’s cry which led to the discovery of the body in 
the urn. So far so good. The police were called in 
and from them and our own investigations we glean 
the following facts.” 

He held up his hand and checked the items off on 
his fingers as he talked. “One, Ramalho was killed by 
a dagger that belongs to Judith. Two, he was robbed 
of all his valuables. Three, he was branded by a skull 
which has since vanished. Four, the murderer is left- 
handed, smokes Russian cigarettes, was clever enough 
to wear gloves, yet foolishly attempted to hide the body. 
Now let us reconstruct as far as possible what took 
place in the library that night.” 

“What took place?” I echoed. I had deemed his 
previous conversation, what he had later called it, mere 
speculation with no foundation on fact, yet here was he 
seriously talking about divining what had occurred 
when the only persons who could possibly know the 
truth of that happening were the murderer and his 
victim. “Surely you are not implying that you can re¬ 
late every circumstance connected with the commission 
of the crime in this room that night?” I said in¬ 
credulously. 

“My dear Professor, if a scientist from a couple of 

[ u6] 


RECONSTRUCTION 

old bones can reconstruct the creature from which he 
claims they came; if you yourself from a few bits of 
pottery can gauge the civilization of a bygone age, 
surely with a little imagination to aid me I can reasori 
back from effect to cause.” 

I caught at one word. “Imagination is all very well 
in its place, Mr. McKelvie, but it will never put the 
murderer of Ramalho where he belongs.” 

He smiled indulgently, like a master who is willing 
to reason with the vagaries of a pupil. “If I had not 
the power within myself to rise above the commonplace 
and view things in the light of fancy, I should resign 
this moment and leave the undertaking to such prosaic 
persons as yourself and the police, Professor. But let 
me give you a demonstration of what imagination can 
do toward solving a mysterious crime. Let us take the 
murderer and follow his movements that night. He 
entered by the front gate which I understand from Mr. 
Clinton is not locked until ten o’clock, and he stood at 
the corner of the house while he waited for his victim. 
During the interim he steadied his nerves or bolstered 
his courage by smoking a cigarette. The action was 
habitual and he dropped the butt mechanically, step¬ 
ping on it to put it out without really being conscious 
of what he was doing. As the cigarette was practically 
consumed, we can approximate the time of waiting. 
Let us say ten minutes.” 


[ii7] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“Just a moment. How do you know the murderer 
was waiting-” 

“How do I know anything about the case? By put¬ 
ting together the facts as they present themselves to 
me and by making of the whole one perfect pattern. 
Since the person who called on Ramalho that night, let 
us call him X for the sake of brevity, did stand and 
smoke, the natural conclusion follows that he was wait¬ 
ing for something or somebody. Otherwise he would 
have gone to the door and rung the bell.” 

“If you would kindly let me finish my sentence you 
might possibly learn what I intended to ask you,” I 
put in patiently, remembering our compact. 

Even that polite rebuke didn’t faze him. “What 
did you want to know?” he demanded in a tone of voice 
which indicated that I and not he was to blame for the 
misunderstanding. 

“I wanted to ask you why you assume that it was 
Ramalho that X was awaiting. Supposing it were not 
premeditated murder; supposing that Neville St. John, 
let us say, was waiting for Maria Theresa and seeing 
the light entered the library to find Ramalho. They 
quarrelled and on the impulse St. John picked up the 
dagger and killed his brother-in-law. Then horrified, 
he robbed the body as a blind, hid it, and replaced the 
dagger on the table. As for the fingermarks, if he had 
the wit to hide the body what was to prevent his having 

[n8] 


RECONSTRUCTION 

the forethought to clean the hilt as well as the blade of 

the dagger ?” 

“The point is well taken,” he said with a slight smile, 
“but unfortunately you have not soared high enough 
into the realm of fancy. You have looked at the mat¬ 
ter from only one angle and so there are flaws in your 
reasoning. In the first place, if St. John had had a 
rendezvous with Maria Theresa, she would not have 
ascended to the drawing-room with you. She would 
have made some excuse to get away unobserved. In 
the next place, only the blade of the dagger was cleaned. 
Recall the smear of blood the police found on the hilt. 
Because he wore gloves, X saw no reason for wasting 
time upon the hilt. In the third place, you were in the 
library twenty minutes after the crime was committed. 
How long do you think it takes to quarrel, to become 
sufficiently enraged to harbor the thought of murder, to 
pick up a dagger and kill the victim, to ponder what to 
do to efface the crime and hide the body? More than 
twenty minutes I’ll wager when you take into considera¬ 
tion that Ramalho was not only robbed but branded as 
well.” 

“St. John gave Ramalho the skull,” I reminded him. 

“Yes, but that might have been pure coincidence, or 
if St. John is the murderer then he came prepared to 
commit the crime. Don’t overlook the fact that this 
is a case of premeditated murder.” 


[ 119 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


He paused, then added quietly, “I wasn’t assuming 
that X was waiting for Ramalho. I know. How? 
Very simply. The moment Ramalho came into the li¬ 
brary and turned on the light, X stepped in and killed 
him, for according to the doctor’s verdict Ramalho must 
have died immediately after coming downstairs. Under 
the circumstances then, X could hardly have been wait¬ 
ing for anyone else.” 

He sat back in expectation of my approval, but I 
was not convinced. I proceeded to find fault with his 
reasoning as he had done with mine. How did he know 
all this? Was he romancing for my benefit or did he 
himself believe what he had told me? His very cock¬ 
sureness made me desire actual proof for his state¬ 
ments. 

McKelvie had been watching me closely. “What’s 
the trouble, Professor?” he asked, amused. “You don’t 
seem to be in accord with me.” 

“No, I’m not. You are not sufficiently explicit. For 
instance, how do you know that Ramalho turned on 
the light?” 

“Because through Mr. Clinton, I questioned Cesario 
while you were talking to Mrs. Clinton. The butler 
claims that the light was out in the library when the 
family adjourned to the second floor after dinner. The 
light was on when you entered the room after you heard 
[ 120 ] 


RECONSTRUCTION 

the cry.” He shrugged as much as to say, “What 
greater proof could you desire?” 

“Not proven,” I contended. “Remember that Judith 
was in the room before me. She may have turned it 
on.” 

“Of course that is true, but that does not alter my 
original statement. When Ramalho entered, the li¬ 
brary was in darkness. The first thing that would 
occur to him would be to switch on the light. That is 
an almost instinctive action with a person who enters 
a darkened room. Here’s another refutation of your 
skepticism. X was expecting a signal otherwise he 
would have entered the library when he first arrived. 
What was that signal? Doubtless Ramalho himself 
silhouetted against the lighted window frame, so that 
there might be no mistake. Evidently the two had ar- k 
ranged for a meeting in the library.” 

“But why? Why should Ramalho make an appoint¬ 
ment with this man, X, if he was so in fear of death? 
The Brazilian knew what the skull meant,” I ex¬ 
postulated. 

“Ah, that is something that I can’t account for yet, 
not even by the most extravagant flight of the imagina¬ 
tion. But the bare fact remains. That they did have 
an interview planned is evidenced by Ramalho’s going 
into the library at all. If he had merely been going 
out he would have used the front door ” 


[ 12 I ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“Might he not have entered the library to get some¬ 
thing he may have wanted to take with him?” I con¬ 
jectured. 

McKelvie allowed his gaze to wander about the bare 
walls and finally to settle speculatively upon the book¬ 
case filled with curios. “I rather fancy this is called a. 
library by courtesy of what it may have once con¬ 
tained,” he hazarded, and I nodded agreement. 

“Tom had his books removed upstairs when he un¬ 
packed his collection for my benefit,” I explained. 

“From which we might argue that there is nothing 
in this room that was likely to interest Ramalho. Cer¬ 
tainly it would not have been the ivory skull,” con¬ 
tinued McKelvie, significantly. 

“Yes, I presume you are right, and there was a pre¬ 
arranged meeting in the library between the two men, 
Ramalho and X. What happened next?” I was no 
better off than I had been before. The whole thing 
was so preposterous, so illogical. But I did not want 
to side-track McKelvie by asking too many questions. 

“We will deduce that Ramalho closed the door be¬ 
hind him,” McKelvie resumed the thread of his nar¬ 
rative. “Otherwise anyone coming down the stairs 
would have interrupted proceedings. The same applies 
to the window. X or Ramalho either one may have 
closed it. They held their conversation here by the 
[ 122 ] 


RECONSTRUCTION 


table and it was not a very long one. A few minutes 
after his entrance X had stabbed his victim.” 

McKelvie rose and pointed to a spot, a brown stain 
that looked to be a part of the mosaic design of the 
floor. 

“Blood,” he said briefly. “That is where the body 
fell which accounts for my deduction that they con¬ 
versed near the table, and also tells us that X plunged 
the dagger in and removed it immediately. Then he 
branded his victim, robbed him, carried him to the urn 
and dumped him in, replacing the lid.” 

“A rather remarkable feat, don’t you think, to carry 
a dead body that far?” I commented drily, gauging 
with my eye the distance between the table and the 
urn. 

“Five feet. I measured it awhile ago,” he assented. 
“Yes, as you say a difficult task, since a dead body has 
no buoyancy and would be a rather heavy weight for a 
man to carry. There is no evidence, however, that he 
dragged the body to the urn, for if he had there would 
have been no more blood-stains, whereas you can see 
for yourself the trail of spots leading to the urn.” 

I looked at the brown spots which he pointed out 
and realized the accuracy of his deduction. X must 
have turned the body over to rob it, and had he then 
dragged it to the urn there would have been no more 
evidence of blood on the floor. When I glanced up 

11231 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


McKelvie added, “Therefore X must have carried it, 
impossible as this may seem, which gives us the added 
clue that he is a man of unusual strength.” 

“It should not be so very hard a task to find X then. 
He seems to have left us quite a collection of clues to 
his personality,” I could not help remarking. 

“Yes, that is just what troubles me. It’s much too 
early in the game, and not at all according to rule for 
me to know so many incriminating details. There is 
something amiss, but I can’t put my finger on the weak 
spot in my logic. The trail has been clearly indicated 
and it was only necessary to follow the signposts. Rut 
let us drop that for awhile and see what we can make 
of the more puzzling turns in this affair.” 

He took a turn around the room, his brows drawn 
together in thought. “Why did X attempt to hide the 
body? He must have known that Ramalho would have 
been missed in the morning and that a search would 
reveal the fact that he had probably not left the house. 
Every nook and cranny would be pried into and dis¬ 
covery be imminent.” 

“He may have done it to give himself time to escape,” 
I suggested. 

McKelvie shook his head. “He was under the im¬ 
pression that he had effaced all traces of himself. Be¬ 
sides to leave the city would render him liable to 
suspicion since the police were bound to take cognizance 
[ 124 ] 


RECONSTRUCTION 


of all of Ramalho’s acquaintances. X killed the Bra¬ 
zilian in cold blood and was therefore running no risks 
of being found out. He has an alibi all prepared in 
case he needs it as we’ll discover when we locate him. 
This being true, why go to the trouble of hiding the 
body? It could make little difference to him whether 
the crime was brought to light that night or next 
morning.” 

I had no answer with which to satisfactorily explain 
this query and after a pause, during which he resumed 
his pacing of the room, he continued, “There is not 
much use in wasting time guessing at his reason. Let 
us pass on to the next peculiarity. Why was the dagger 
placed on the table? Why didn’t X take it away with 
him? Why leave it as evidence unless he desired to 
incriminate Judith, or his putting it there meant that he 
was returning it to the place from which he had taken 
it? But in that event why should he come prepared 
with gloves and leave the weapon to chance?” 

A dim recollection had been struggling in my mind 
for recognition as McKelvie talked, and now I inter¬ 
rupted him with a triumphant cry. 

“That’s just where it was. The dagger was on the 
table. I recall now that I noticed it without being 
really conscious of doing so when Parrish and the 
Countess were talking to Ramalho that evening before 
dinner. I was standing by the table listening to them 

1125] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


and I remember glancing down and seeing the dagger. 
I forgot it the next moment. Your words brought the 
occurrence back to me.” 

“That was just before dinner, you say? Was the 
dagger on the table when you left the library to dress 
for dinner?” he asked eagerly. 

I closed my eyes and reviewed the events of that 
afternoon. I had been working in the library from 
luncheon time until I went upstairs to dress for dinner. 
No one had passed through the room during that inter¬ 
val. But wait. Judith had been in the garden with 
her brother. Perhaps she had placed the dagger on the 
table after I had left the room. I was positive that it 
could not have been placed on the table previous to 
that time because I had cleared that article of furniture 
of its encumbrances in order to spread a map upon it. 
Had the dagger been among the objects on the table 
I should have recalled handling it. 

“That clears up one difficulty, then,” remarked Mc- 
Kelvie when I had replied to his question. “Whoever 
used that dagger knew beforehand that it was on this 
table, yet how could he be sure that it would still be 
there when he wanted it? How did he know but that 
any one of you, Judith herself might not carry it 
away?” 

“Unless he came prepared with a weapon of his own 
and seeing the dagger on the table decided to use that 
[126] 


RECONSTRUCTION 


instead and so obviate the necessity of ridding himself 
of the weapon,” I pointed out. 

“I don’t think so. The whole affair was carried out 
too quickly and with too much precision to have al¬ 
lowed for any changes of plan. X knew exactly what 
he was going to do and he did it without having to stop 
to think about it. I doubt whether in his absorption 
with the task in hand, he would have noticed the dag¬ 
ger on the table, surrounded as it was by various other 
objects. No, he had planned to use the dagger before 
he entered the room that night, and the only plausible 
solution is to say that he came in and appropriated it 
while the family was at dinner. 

“And now we come to the question of what was in 
the urn.” He dumped his pipe and put it in his pocket. 
“As the only person who can give us any definite in¬ 
formation on that subject is Judith, supposing we see 
what a few judicious questions will do toward clearing 
up that point.” 

He walked to the window and waved his hand toward 
a far corner of the garden. “Isn’t that a summer-house 
in the distance?” 

“Yes, though in reality it is nothing but a honey¬ 
suckle arbor.” 

“If my eyes are not at fault, I believe that is where 
we shall find the lady whom we are seeking,” and he 
stepped out onto the garden path. 


1127 ] 


CHAPTER XI 


Judith’s account 

Instead of cutting directly across the garden to the 
arbor McKelvie, either by accident or design, followed 
the path beside the house that led to the backyard and 
the servants’ quarters. Here we encountered Cesario 
who was engaged in sweeping the yard with a broom 
made of twigs. McKelvie watched him idly for a 
moment, then he turned to me. 

“Ask him whether he looks after the front gardens, 
too,” he ordered. 

I put the question to Cesario who replied in a 
trembling voice that Senhor Ramalho had dismissed 
the gardener for being impudent late the afternoon of 
the tragedy, and that since then no one had cared for 
the gardens. 

McKelvie raised his brows. “Humph,” he remarked. 
“What’s the gardener’s name?” 

Again I translated both inquiry and reply. “He says 
the man is a caboclo, that is partly Indian, a big, ugly 
brute of a fellow but harmless enough if left to him¬ 
self. He is called Fernandez.” 

[128] 


JUDITH’S ACCOUNT 

“And did he leave at once upon being dismissed?” 

“He doesn’t know, but believes that the gardener 
packed his belongings at once,” I explained. 

“It’s probably of no importance. He would not be 
in the habit of smoking Russian cigarettes, nor be 
clever enough to think out the murder. We had better 
hasten if we expect to catch Judith before she returns 
to the house,” he said. 

As we approached the summer-house I caught a 
glimpse of black draperies and knew that McKelvie 
had been right in stating that we should find the girl 
we sought within the small inclosure. How he had 
managed to distinguish her presence from so great a 
distance was a mystery to me, but I had no time to 
speculate upon his remarkable phenomenon, for at this 
moment McKelvie was bowing before Judith with a 
deferential air which in nowise concealed the satis¬ 
faction with which he had noted, even as I had done, 
the instant change upon the girl’s face from bitter re¬ 
flection to a masklike rigidity that revealed nothing 
of her thoughts. 

“Madam,” began McKelvie immediately, “I am 
sorry to have to intrude upon your grief but there are 
a number of questions that I find it imperative to ask 
you. If you will kindly be seated, I will try to make 
the interview as short as possible.” 

Judith accepted the situation with supreme indiffer- 

[ 1291 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


ence as she seated herself upon the rustic bench which 
ran around one side of the arbor. McKelvie gave her 
a penetrating glance as if he would read what was going 
on in the brain behind that white, tense face and those 
stony grey eyes; then he spoke abruptly, brutally. 

“What were you looking for in the urn the night of 
the murder, Madame?” 

With a cry like that of a wounded tigress, she sprang 
to her feet and faced McKelvie, anger and terror fight¬ 
ing for mastery in every line of her quivering features, 
then with a moan of anguish she dropped back upon 
the bench and hid her face in her trembling hands. 

McKelvie stood looking down contritely on that 
bowed head. “I’m sorry, Madame, if I startled you,” 
he said soothingly, gently, as to a frightened child. “I 
was afraid you would deny the implication if I merely 
led up to the question gradually.” 

The deep voice had its desired effect. “How did you 
know I—I was looking for anything?” she sobbed, but 
she had ceased to tremble. 

“I hardly supposed that you made it a practice to 
look into that urn every evening,” he responded. 

“Do—do you know what it was that I was looking 
for?” she continued, feeling her ground. 

“I am waiting for you to disclose that fact,” was the 
calm reply. 

A quivering sigh of relief was the only answer, then 
[130] 


JUDITH’S ACCOUNT 

the girl seemed literally to pull herself together. When 
she finally raised her head, her countenance bore no 
trace of her recent agitation. The masklike calm, the 
calm of desperation, had descended upon it again. 

“I will tell you what you wish to know,” she said, 
hurriedly, keeping her eyes on her hands which she held 
clasped tightly in her lap. “You know, of course, that 
—that I was not happy in my marriage. I—my hus¬ 
band became infatuated with the dancer, Dolores 
Castro, and he saw no reason why I should object to 
his neglect of me. My place was in the home, he said.” 

She paused to regain control of her voice which had 
gradually become more and more bitter in tone. 

“The day of the murder my brother called to see me. 
I told him of my unhappiness. He threatened to kill 
Duarte. I was frightened and begged Neville to be 
reasonable. He refused. We talked a long time and 
I finally persuaded him to heed me. I watched him 
leave the grounds and then entered the house through 
the library where I encountered Duarte. He knew I 
was angry and he tried to placate me with a pearl neck¬ 
lace. I flung it from me saying that Dolores would 
appreciate it more than I. It happened that the urn 
was uncovered—and the necklace accidentally fell into 
the receptacle. That night after Duarte had left me, 
I fell to wondering whether he had taken the necklace 
to Dolores. I—I went down the back way to the li- 

1131 j 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


brary. The lid was on the urh. I lifted it and saw—” 
She faltered in her speech and the words died away 
into an ineffectual murmur. 

McKelvie, who had been pacing the little summer¬ 
house while she told us her story, now halted before 
her. “Then you did not take the necklace from the 
urn?” 

She made a gesture of repugnance. “No, no. I 
screamed and ran out into the hall. I do not know 
what became of the necklace. The police-” 

“The police did not take it,” McKelvie returned 
gravely. “Therefore we shall have to assume that the 
murderer must have carried it away with him.” 

“No, he wouldn’t have—he couldn’t!” The words 
came almost without volition before Judith regained her 
former calm poise. “I mean,” she said with a strained 
smile, “that no one could know that the necklace was 
there but Duarte and me. Duarte must have taken 
it away with him, that is, he must have reclaimed it 
from the urn as soon as I had left the library. Don’t 
you think that I am right?” She seemed to be begging 
for a confirmation of her story. 

“No doubt at all. Thank you for the hint. I shall 
have to search among your husband’s effects then, since 
he did not have a chance to carry it away from the 
house himself. By the way, the police say that your 

11321 



JUDITH’S ACCOUNT 

husband bore a tattoo mark on his arm. Can you 
describe it to me?” 

“No—I couldn’t.” She paused abruptly, then con¬ 
tradicted herself in a whisper as though she feared 
the very leaves of the honeysuckle might give 
ear to her confession. “It was just his initials, D. R.” 

“And when did he efface it?” 

Judith opened her eyes wide and stared up at Mc- 
Kelvie, fascinated. “How do you know so much about 
these things?” she asked in awe. 

“Nothing miraculous in my appearance of knowl¬ 
edge I assure you,” he replied with a slight smile. 
“The police declare the mark has been effaced. Since 
you can describe it to me, naturally it follows that you 
must know when your husband attempted to rid himself 
of it.” 

“Oh!” She was relieved by the explanation. “He 
effaced it about the beginning of July,” she said slowly. 

“Why?” 

“Indeed I do not know.” She wrung her hands in 
protest. “He forbade my asking him what it repre¬ 
sented.” 

“Can you think of nothing which may have happened 
at the time to account for his act?” persisted Mc- 
Kelvie. 

“No. But, yes, I do remember, now. His lawyer, 
Senhor Santiago, called on him one day and gave him 

11331 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


a package. The contents excited him greatly and it 
was right after that episode that he effaced the mark 
on his arm.” 

“What were these contents?” 

“Some letters and a photograph. He read the letters 
and destroyed them. I do not know what they con¬ 
tained.” 

“And the photograph?” he inquired eagerly. 

“Was the photograph of a very beautiful young 
woman,” replied Judith tonelessly. 

“What became of it?” 

“I do not know. He was always receiving photo¬ 
graphs of beautiful young women. I had ceased to 
care what he did with them,” she answered dispiritedly. 

“Have you any objections to giving me the lawyer’s 
address?” 

“I suppose not. His office is on the Ouvidor No. 56.” 

“Note that, will you please, Professor,” he asked of 
me. Then to her, tactfully changing the subject, “Did 
you ever hear of Benjamin Garcia?” 

“Garcia? No, I am sure I have not,” she returned^ 
puzzled. “Why?” 

McKelvie had a way of ignoring questions which he 
did not choose to answer. He sprang another surprise. 
“Have you ever seen the ivory skull, Madame?” 

I had thought her pale before. Now she became 
positively ashen and her slight form shook as with a 

1134 ] 


JUDITH’S ACCOUNT 

chill. “No, no, oh, no,” she cried in accents of fear. 

McKelvie gave her time to recover her lost poise. 
He took out his cigarette case, a gold monogramed 
affair I noticed, and asked permission to indulge. She 
nodded mechanically, still panic-stricken. 

“Perhaps you also feel the need of something to 
quiet your nerves,” he suggested, proffering the case. 

She stared up at him with a look of disgust in her 
eyes. “I do not smoke,” she said with dignity, rising 
and advancing toward the entrance. 

“Just one more question,” begged McKelvie, return¬ 
ing the case to his pocket without helping himself as 
if he had forgotten his reason for taking it out. “Did 
you by any chance lay your paper-cutter on the library 
table any time during the day of the murder?” 

She twined her fingers in and out nervously before 
she finally said in a low voice, “No, I did not.” 

“Do you know of anyone else who may have done 
so?” 

She hesitated, then replied in a troubled tone, “Any¬ 
one might have. I—I had mislaid it sometime previ¬ 
ous.” 

“The day before?” 

“The day before,” she repeated parrotlike, catching 
at the suggestion as a drowning man does at a straw. 

“Thank you. That is all at present. You will pardon 
us if we do not accompany you?” 


[ i3S ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


Judith inclined her blonde head and greatly relieved 
moved slowly away in the direction of the house. As 
soon as she was hidden from view by a bend in the 
path, McKelvie darted to one corner of the summer¬ 
house and picked up something from the ground which 
he proceeded to examine with a slight chuckle. When 
he was satisfied that he had deduced all that he could 
from it, he extended it to me. To my astonishment I 
saw that it was the merest stub of a cigarette. 

“Russian,” he remarked, tersely, as he placed it in 
the envelope beside the other one he had found. 
“Madame Judith was evidently not alone in the sum¬ 
mer-house. I suspected as much when I stood at the 
window of the library after luncheon and saw her slip 
out the back way and make for this corner of the 
garden. As you see my suspicions are verified.” 

“So that is why you craved a cigarette after consum¬ 
ing a pipeful of tobacco. I began to think you must be 
an inveterate smoker,” I returned with dawning intel¬ 
ligence. 

He smiled. “I’m pretty bad, but not as bad as that, 
Professor. There was method in my madness this time, 
you see.” He frowned, then added with a sigh, “There 
was a time in the good old days when the presence of 
a cigarette stub proclaimed the gender of the smoker. 
Now, however, it is a physical impossibility to decide 
without actual proof. Since Madame Judith does not 
[136] 


JUDITH’S ACCOUNT 

smoke, she must have had a caller. It’s up to me to 
discover whether this person was a man or a woman. 
I’m inclined to deduce that it was the former.” 

“Why?” 

“We can safely say that Mrs. Clinton and Maria 
Theresa do not indulge. The craze does not seem to 
have attacked as yet the home-loving Brazilian woman. 
The only other member of the sex who might have an 
interest in the tragedy would be Dolores Castro. She 
doubtless smokes, being of the demi-mondaine type, 
but Judith would not trouble to shield one whom she 
abhors as wholesomely as she does this woman. And 
it is very evident that Judith is shielding someone. It 
may be her brother. It is more likely to be a former 
lover as the police official so shrewdly hinted.” 

“Where did this former lover come from?” I in¬ 
quired, annoyed at the continual reference to this 
mythical individual. “I have seen no one who might 
answer to that description, no one who is at all inter¬ 
ested in Judith Ramalho. If she is shielding anyone, 
it is her brother, Neville.” 

We had been walking away from the summer-house 
and were gradually approaching the iron door in the 
wall which separated the alley from the garden. 

“No, she is not shielding her brother. She was too 
wrought up for it to have been a mere brother.” 

“Why didn’t you ask her who it was, then?” I inter- 

1137 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


r up ted, impatiently. “Why guess when you had the 
chance to learn the truth?” 

“Because she would have denied it, flatly and posi¬ 
tively, and what good would that have done us, Pro¬ 
fessor? We should have been no forwarder; we should 
merely have prolonged a painful interview—that is the 
only part of my hobby that I detest, this having to 
probe into the secret recesses of a woman’s soul—” 
He broke off abruptly to gaze moodily at the wall be¬ 
fore him before he shook off the somber reflection and 
continued, “Again she would have had her suspicions 
aroused by the question, whereas at the present moment 
she is laboring under the delusion that she has com¬ 
pletely taken us in. I did not need further denial to 
tell me that she is shielding someone she loves.” He 
lowered his voice as he added impressively, “There was 
not one atom of truth in that ingenious tale she related 
to us just now.” 

“Isn’t that rather strong?” I protested. 

“Hardly strong enough. Oh, yes, she did tell us one 
or two things that were founded on fact, but I had in 
mind particularly her story of the events of that even¬ 
ing. In lifting the lid of the urn, she was concerned in 
finding—not a necklace—but the ivory skull! ” 


ti38] 


CHAPTER XII 


NEVILLE ST. JOHN 

I stood stock-still and gazed at McKelvie in dumb 
wonderment, whereupon he broke into a laugh. 

“I wasn’t making the statement to be dramatic,” he 
said. “Though, I admit, that it must have been a bit 
startling hurled at you in that heartless fashion. There 
were marks in the bottom of the urn where the emerald 
eyes of the skull had scratched the pottery when it was 
removed from the receptacle. As I read the marks, 
the person was in such a hurry that he put in his hand 
and drew the skull up along the side of the urn.” 

“Might not those scratches have been made by the 
necklace?” I was prepared to believe anything no mat¬ 
ter how incredible rather than admit that Judith knew 
aught of the ivory skull. 

“A pearl necklace? Besides, I found traces of that 
acid used to brand the victim of the tragedy. I’d very 
much like to know what it was doing in the urn.” 

“If you knew this why did you harrow Judith’s feel¬ 
ings by asking her what she was looking for?” I de¬ 
manded, suspiciously. 


1139 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“Because I wanted to learn whether she connected 
the skull with the person she is shielding. Evidently 
she does or she would not have taken the trouble to 
concoct that story for our benefit. I wish I knew 
whether she was telling the truth about that tattoo 
mark / 5 he mused. “Do you suppose that Mrs. Clinton 
would know ? 55 

But I was following my own train of thought and 
my remark was irrelevant. “There is no one for Judith 
to shield since you eliminate St. John. Are you of the 
opinion then that she is guilty? If she knows all about 
this accursed skull she may have been the one to have 
wielded her own dagger, particularly as she had a, 
grievance against her husband . 55 I was trying to dis¬ 
cover his attitude in regard to Judith. 

“Circumstantial evidence, Professor , 55 said Mc- 
Kelvie, quietly. “You have fallen into the error that 
the police are so prone to make. You have placed your 
entire faith in evidence which can often be made to 
point in opposite directions depending on the angle of 
vision. You need not be afraid that I shall drag Judith 
into court. By your own showing the dagger was on 
the table. Any number of persons had access to it. If 
the girl were guilty she would hardly go to the length 
of hiding the body only to reveal it to you in the next 
breath. She could not have carried it in any case, and 
also she is shielding someone whom she believes to be 
[ 140] 


NEVILLE ST. JOHN 

guilty. That alone proclaims her innocence, and your 
carefully gathered evidence is shot full of holes.” 

By the expression of his face I knew that he had not 
been deceived into thinking that I had at any time 
deemed Judith guilty, but I was none the less glad of 
the argument which he had amused himself in expound¬ 
ing since it showed me that Judith was to be left out of 
our further inquiries. 

“And you are positive that she is not shielding St. 
John?” I queried after a slight pause. 

“I’m convinced of it. We can easily establish that 
fact, however, by interviewing him. Before we leave, 
I want you to do me a favor. Will you be my ambas¬ 
sador instead of my interpreter this time?” 

“With pleasure,” I responded. 

“That is a rash reply. You have now committed 
yourself to a task which may not suit you. Go and 
ask Mrs. Clinton if she can get hold of that photograph 
of which Judith spoke. Also inquire what the tattoo 
mark looked like and how long Ramalho had borne it.” 

I left him examining the iron door and returned to 
the house. I was not particularly pleased with my er¬ 
rand just as he had hinted, but having given my word 
I did not like to retract it. Besides, I appreciated the 
delicacy which had prevented him from asking Judith 
to secure the picture for him. Again I had no great 
faith in Dona Helena’s power to help us. 


[ 141 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

I found her in the kitchen, a big airy, stone-floored 
room, where she was helping Esmeralda, the cook, out 
of some intricate culinary difficulty. The common 
round of daily life leaves us no time for idle grieving. 
When I beckoned to her, Dona Helena gave the negress 
some hasty instructions, then followed me out into the 
hall. 

“What is it, Senhor? Has anything happened?” she 
inquired, alarmed. 

“No, nothing has occurred. I merely came to make 
a request. You have been helping Judith go through 
her husband’s effects, have you not?” I began, rather 
diffidently. 

She shook her head a little sadly. “I have been car¬ 
rying on that task alone. Judith refuses to have any¬ 
thing to do with the matter, Senhor.” 

“Then you are just the one to help me,” I returned 
quickly. “Early in July your lawyer gave your brother 
a photograph of a young woman. Could you get it for 
me, please?” 

“In July?” She furrowed her clear brows in an effort 
to remember. “Yes, I think I recall the circumstance. 
She was very lovely but he would not tell me who she 
was. He had the picture on his dresser for a while. I 
will see if I can find it for you.” 

I paced the lower hall while I awaited her return, 
trying to decide in what way the photograph could pos- 
[ 142 ] 


NEVILLE ST. JOHN 

sibly further the solution of the mystery. Did Mc- 
Kelvie think a woman was responsible for Ramalho’s 
death? But no woman could have carried the body to 
the urn. 

“Here it is, Senhor.” I had been in such a brown 
study that I had not heard the sound of her approach. 
She held out the picture with a tremulous gesture. 
“You will be careful, will you not, Senhor?” 

“More than careful. Another question before you 
go, Senhora. What was the mark that your brother 
had on his arm?” I asked, pleased with my previous 
success. 

The look in her eyes changed to one of deep concern. 
“I cannot tell you, Senhor. He forbade it,” she 
faltered. 

“Dona Helena, would you mind telling me how you 
came to know that he carried this mark on his arm?” 
I was endeavoring to imitate McKelvie and do as he 
would under the circumstances, that is, I was trying to 
learn the answer to my question by beating about the 
bush. 

“He has always had it. I had believed it to be a 
birthmark until—until that morning in July—it was 
a few days after the lawyer’s visit—when Duarte came 
to me and told me that I was never to tell anyone or 
so much as think even to myself what that mark had 
been like. He had destroyed it, you see.” 


1143 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

“Since he is dead what can it matter if you reveal 
this secret?” I returned. 

She raised her plump hands in protest. “Do not ask 
me. My lips are sealed.” 

A call for help from the direction of the kitchen sent 
her flying down the hall. Seeing that I had little chance 
of extracting information from her, I gave up the 
project and bent my gaze upon the picture in my hand. 
A beautiful young woman, Judith had labeled the pic¬ 
tured face. She had been niggardly of her praise. I 
had no words to describe even to myself its wondrous 
beauty. A radiant face it was, with a perfection of out¬ 
line and a symmetry of features seldom seen in a human 
countenance; an oval face beneath a crown of dead- 
black hair, a pair of deep, lustrous brown eyes so dark 
as to be almost black, a mouth of surpassingly beauti¬ 
ful curve; not a Madonna face, but a face alive, ex¬ 
uberant, sparkling with the very joy of being alive. 

I turned the photograph over in a sort of stupor. On 
the back was written in a fine hand in Italian, 

“Yours till death, Nita.” 

Who was she? And where had Ramalho known her? 
Could it be that this was Dolores Castro? I repudiated 
the thought even as it took form in my mind. I had 
seen the dancer’s picture in the paper the previous 
Sunday. Beside this photograph Dolores Castro’s 
claim to beauty faded as the mist before the sun. 

1144] 


NEVILLE ST. JOHN 

I carried the photograph to McKelvie. For a long 
time he studied it—coolly and critically. When he 
spoke his words were a shock to me. 

“This does not happen to be a photograph of the 
Contessa di Sforza, does it?” he demanded. 

“The Contessa—” I was so indignant that I could 
only sputter. “You don’t meant to say that you 
thought— Good heavens, she’s above such an action— 
Why she-” 

“A natural mistake,” he interposed testily. “She 
was described to me by you as being—well, I can’t pos¬ 
sibly paint her in as glowing terms. Nita is also her 
name; she is Italian, and she knew Ramalho in 
Paris.” 

I cooled down. “I have never seen that face before,” 
I said, more connectedly, referring to the picture. “It 
is not the countess. There is no resemblance whatso¬ 
ever between them. This one’s type of beauty is more 
delicate, more exquisitely perfect, whereas the countess 
ensnares one’s senses and robs one of the power to 
think coherently.” 

The twinkle that was never absent long from those 
keen eyes deepened. “I did not know that you were 
a connoisseur of woman’s beauty, Professor. Appear¬ 
ances are deceptive. You have not the look of a ‘gay 
dog.’ ” 

“All beauty, whether it be in a woman’s face or in 

c 145 1 



THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


the line of a poem or in the turn of a vase, appeals to 
me, Mr. McKelvie. I am not a connoisseur, except in 
matters pertaining to objects of virtu. I deal only in 
antiques,” I replied seriously. 

“Perhaps it’s just as well, Professor,” he returned 
gravely, though I know that he was inwardly amused. 
“I should be tempted to correct you, otherwise, and 
say that in my humble opinion this lady in the picture 
is also possessed of the passionate type of beauty. 
However, that’s neither here nor there. We will show 
the portrait to the lawyer. He may be able to help us. 
In the meantime what have you learned concerning the 
tattoo?” went on McKelvie, essentially practical. 

I gave him the gist of my conversation with Tom’s 
wife, and he received it in frowning silence. 

“A birthmark, did she say? Humph, if Ramalho has 
carried the tattoo all these years that rather throws out 
our theory that he effaced it because he had been false 
to a trust entered into with several other men.” He 
pondered a while. “I’d be willing to wager that these 
two deaths are connected.” 

“How can they be unless Parrish killed both men,” 
I objected. 

“It can’t be coincidence,” he asserted. “I’m sick 
of that word. And yet, I’d swear that Parrish isn’t 
guilty this time.” He shook his head in puzzled won¬ 
derment. “But we are wasting precious time. Let us 
[146] 


NEVILLE ST. JOHN 

carry out our original intention. Where does this alley 
lead?” 

He pocketed the picture and swung open the iron 
door, giving us an unobstructed view of a dirty squalid 
alley lined with dirty tumbledown shacks, the negro 
quarters for that district. 

“The alley leads to the Senador Vergueiro, about a 
block away,” I replied to his question. 

“I’m afraid that’s Greek to me. How can I get to 
the American Consulate?” 

“By taking a street-car, or by commandeering Tom’s 
Rolls-Royce,” I returned, certain that he would choose 
the latter. 

“Forward then. I’ve been aching to ride in a bond 
(isn’t that what the trams are called?) ever since my 
arrival.” 

He followed me along the alley like a school-boy on 
a lark, seeming to have entirely forgotten the grim task 
upon which he was engaged. Nor would he permit me 
to recall it to him. 

“Time enough to resume that trend of thought when 
we reach the Consulate,” was the only answer he vouch¬ 
safed me and I envied him his ability to detach his 
mind from a subject at will. 

When we emerged from the alley we turned west for 
a block and boarded a passing car. McKelvie insisted 
on paying the fare and bestowed with great care in his 

[ r 47 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


wallet as souvenirs the small brown and white coupons 
which he obtained in exchange from the conductor as 
receipts. When we alighted he complained that the 
ride was all too short and grumbled about being hurried 
when there was no necessity for it. I wondered if we 
had made a mistake to employ this man? He was so 
joyously young swinging along beside me with his straw 
hat in his hand and his dark head bared to the warm 
breeze that came to us laden with the fragrance of 
flowering trees. So far we had accomplished nothing. 
Was he able to cope with so great a responsibility? 
Would he penetrate to the bottom of this mystery or 
would we have to secure the aid of an older man? The 
moment we crossed the threshold of the Consulate my 
fears vanished like darkness before the dawn of a new 
day, for his whole demeanor changed, his eyes assumed 
a serious aspect and he stepped forward and inquired 
for Neville St. John with an air of authority which 
would brook no denial. 

We were shown instantly into an inner office where 
the blonde young giant sat at ease with his heels on a 
level with his head. At our entrance he lowered his 
feet and rose to greet us. I introduced McKelvie to 
him and the two men bowed ceremoniously to each 
other. Despite the fact that he was an American, Mc¬ 
Kelvie seemed to have adopted the continental fashion 
of bowing rather than shaking hands when presented. 

[148] 


NEVILLE ST. JOHN 

Before we parted to go our separate ways I asked him 
his reason for rejecting this friendly and pleasant cus¬ 
tom of his native land and he gave me the following 
motive: 

“When I’m engaged on a case I can have no idea who 
the criminal may be. I may meet him personally. 
Again I may not. I do not care to shake hands with 
murderers, therefore the easiest way out for all con¬ 
cerned is the one I have adopted. I make it a practice 
never to clasp the hand of anyone with whom I am not 
personally acquainted. Thus I offend no one’s sensi¬ 
bilities and still retain my own self-respect.” 

But to return to the subject in hand. 

Though I had been conscious as I entered that St. 
John looked moody and would have preferred his soli¬ 
tude to our presence, yet with true southern hospitality, 
the young man put himself out to make us feel at home. 
He pushed over cigars and cigarettes, and also ordered 
liquid refreshments, saying that it was a mighty hot 
day and that we looked parched after our walk. As 
we were in what the Brazilians term their winter but 
what we would be more apt to call spring weather, I 
shrewdly divined that St. John was using us as an ex¬ 
cuse for drowning his troubles, whatever they might 
be, in something more lethean than water; for neither 
McKelvie nor I had noticed the heat, nor could I ex¬ 
actly consider myself as having reached the point 

[ 149 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

where I could not survive another moment without 
assuaging my thirst. 

All this platitudinous reasoning, however, did not 
prevent me from accepting the cocktail which he mixed 
with a practiced hand. As I drained my glass it oc¬ 
curred to me to wonder why St. John had not been 
around to see his sister since the murder. A want of 
brotherly affection and certainly a want of courtesy 
toward the girl whom he evidently desired to marry. 

“And, now, what can I do for you, gentlemen?” in¬ 
quired St. John, politely. 

“Mr. St. John,” began McKelvie as he watched the 
other light a cigarette, “you are aware of course of the 
murder of your brother-in-law?” 

“Yes, I learned of it only to-day. But you are not 
drinking anything, sir. Have I made it too weak for 
your taste?” The duties of hospitality claimed St. 
John’s entire attention. 

“Thank you. I do not indulge. I am quite com¬ 
fortable. Pray do not bother about me,” protested Mc¬ 
Kelvie. “You learned of the murder to-day? It is 
already two days old, Mr. St. John.” 

St. John stretched his long legs out in front of him 
and contemplated the points of his white oxfords as he 
replied, “I’ve been away from Rio. Only got back last 
night. I called on Judith this morning and she told me 
about it. A shocking affair, gentlemen. I can’t imagine 

1150] 


NEVILLE ST. JOHN 

who could have done it.” He spoke easily with just the 
proper amount of regret in his slow speech that such 
a calamity should have occurred. It was evident that 
Ramalho’s death was of itself no grief to him. 

“I have been asked to investigate the case for Mr. 
Clinton,” resumed McKelvie. “Under the circum¬ 
stances I trust that you will see your way clear to 
answering a few questions.” 

“At your service, sir, entirely.” 

“You called on your sister the afternoon of the mur¬ 
der, did you not? That is, you talked with her in the 
garden?” 

“Yes, I was with her about fifteen minutes.” 

“I understand that your conversation had to do with 
Ramalho and your sister’s unhappiness?” 

St. John got slowly to his feet, his blue eyes blazing, 
his big hands doubled. “Who gave you leave to pry 
into my sister’s private affairs?” he exclaimed wrath- 
fully. “Get out before I throw you out!” 

“St. John!” I cried out, involuntarily, aghast at his 
rudeness, but McKelvie only laughed and said cynically 
the while he fixed his keen black eyes on the other’s 
flushed and angry countenance, “My dear Professor, 
don’t excite yourself. Evidently in Mr. St. John’s 
category there are no gentlemen born in the United 
States north of the Mason and Dixon line.” 

St. John had the grace to look ashamed of himself. 

[i5i] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

He should have had the wit to see that McKelvie was 
as far above the type of Paul Pry detectives as a gentle¬ 
man is above the product of the streets. “I beg your 
pardon,” he returned stiffly. “I spoke overhastily. 
It’s a family matter and I naturally do not care to have 
my sister’s troubles aired before the world.” 

McKelvie’s fine lip lifted ever so slightly. “You ex¬ 
aggerate. Your sister herself told me whatever I know 
concerning her unfortunate marriage and I assure you 
it will go no further,” he ended, seriously. 

St. John resumed his seat. “I’m an ass. If you’ll 
go ahead, I’ll do my best to answer your questions. 
Did I understand you to hint that Judith and I dis¬ 
cussed her husband the afternoon of the murder?” 

McKelvie inclined his dark head. 

St. John frowned. “I want to be frank with you to 
make amends,” he said. “Don’t think me unchivalrous 
but we did not discuss Duarte at our meeting. Judith 
has never spoken to me of her marriage. She was too 
proud to confess her unhappiness to me.” 

McKelvie looked across at me significantly. If 
Judith fabricated a part of her testimony, then why 
not all of it? I was becoming hopelessly lost in a maze 
of tortuous paths. 

“When you left your sister you came straight home 
without having seen Ramalho or threatened to kill 
him?” continued McKelvie. 

[152] 


NEVILLE ST. JOHN 

“Yes, but wait. When I reached the gate a boy came 
up to me and handed me a package, quite a small 
package. I turned it over and saw that it was addressed 
to Duarte Ramalho. Not wishing to deliver it in per¬ 
son I rang the door-bell and handed the parcel to 
Cesario with instructions to give it to Duarte. After 
that I went home, nor have I been near the house until 
this morning.” 

“And you have no idea what was in the package? 
Or where it came from?” 

“None at all. The address was typed,” was the ready 
answer. 

“Where were you the night of the murder between 
seven and eight?” 

St. John played with the paper-cutter on his desk for 
several minutes and his action reminded me of the 
moment when Judith had bent the fatal dagger in her 
own firm white fingers which resembled so closely her 
brother’s. At length he raised his head and met Mc- 
Kelvie’s eyes squarely. 

“I can’t tell you where I was, but I give you my word 
of honor that I did not kill Duarte,” he said. 

McKelvie accepted the statement upon its face value, 
and his next question was a surprise to me. 

“There is one more detail which I should like to 
have. You may answer or not as you see fit. Is there 

[ *53 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

anyone who wanted to marry your sister before she met 
Ramalho?” 

Again St. John hesitated, then he assented frankly 
enough. “Why, yes. Years ago she was engaged to a 
young southern medical student, named James Bentley. 
It was a boy and girl affair. They quarreled and 
I have not laid eyes on him in three years. The last I 
heard of him he had a fine practice in New York and 
had become an extremely popular young surgeon.” 

“Thank you.” McKelvie rose and I followed suit. 

“If I can help you in any way—” hinted St. John as 
we left. 

“I’ll call upon you,” responded McKelvie, politely. 
When we were once more upon the street and out of 
earshot of the Consulate, he added, “Fiery young cub. 
Do you think now that Judith is shielding her brother?” 

I shook my head sorely puzzled. “What about that 
package, Mr. McKelvie. I suspect from the descrip¬ 
tion that it contained the ivory skull.” 

“Very probably, which proves that St. John’s having 
given it to Ramalho was, as I said, simply coincidence. 
Cesario no doubt told his master that the package came 
from St. John and that was why Ramalho was led to 
believe that his brother-in-law might be connected also 
with the affair of the skull.” 

“And you don’t think he is?” 

“No, I am sure he is not. He was telling the truth 

[ 154 ] 


NEVILLE ST. JOHN 

about the parcel. We can safely cross him off our list 
of suspects,” returned McKelvie with a smile for my 
worried expression. 

“He gave you no alibi,” I replied, unconvinced, my 
mind engaged with a vision of those fingers toying ab¬ 
sently with the paper-cutter. And the man was a giant 
for strength too. He could have carried Ramalho with 
no more trouble than he would have Ricardo. I was 
brought back sharply to plain reality by McKelvie’s 
amused tones. 

“He didn’t need an alibi, Professor. He’s right- 
handed and he doesn’t smoke Russian cigarettes.” 


[ 155 1 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE LAWYER^ STORY 

“As long as we are downtown, Professor, and we 
still have time before dinner,” remarked McKelvie, 
consulting his watch, “would it be trespassing too much 
upon your good-nature to ask you to accompany me to 
the office of the lawyer whom Judith mentioned? San¬ 
tiago, she said his name was, did she not? I have a 
great desire to know who the original of that picture 
may be.” 

“So have I,” I responded. “We are within walking 
distance of his office, and far from trespassing, I should 
be highly incensed if you left me behind.” 

He laughed. “I feel like a kid tied to his mother’s 
apron strings. I daren’t move through the intricacies 
of the language without you, Professor. There is no 
danger that I shall lose you.” 

As before, now that his course of action was mapped 
out, McKelvie laid aside all thoughts of the tragedy 
and we discussed various idle matters as we crossed the 
Largo da Carioca with its old stone reservoir studded 

1156 ] 


THE LAWYER’S STORY 

with large brass faucets from which was drawn the 
water for the town in the olden days. What a pic¬ 
turesque scene that must have been to watch; the 
women, in gayly colored garments, brown-skinned, 
lithe, graceful with the terra-cotta jars upon their 
heads, the men, big, brawny, bare-armed, driving don¬ 
keys laden with cans into which to draw the precious 
sparkling fluid! But all that was done away with long 
ago and the reservoir remains as a reminder, a solitary 
souvenir of days that are no more. So quickly does 
each succeeding generation’s ideas and customs sup¬ 
plant those of previous centuries. 

I pointed out the platitudinous thought to McKelvie, 
but it left him cold. 

“Old-fashioned things are good, no doubt, but I’ll 
warrant that if you had to draw your water from a 
reservoir day after day, rain or shine, in heat and in 
cold, you would not find it quite so picturesque,” was 
the scoffing rejoinder. 

I dropped the subject. Our views and outlook upon 
the world in general were too antipodal to become 
reconciled. I did not attempt to convert him. I merely 
took him to the entrance of the Ouvidor and let the 
charm of this age-old street preach to him instead. 

“What a quaint, old place!” he exclaimed, involun¬ 
tarily, carried out of himself by the old-world aspect 

1157 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

of the street before him. “I haven’t seen anything like 
that since I was last abroad.” 

“There is nothing like it anywhere else/’ I responded. 

And there is not, for there is nothing orderly about 
the Ouvidor. Like Topsy, it just grew whither and how 
it pleased, a narrow, roughly paved street with build¬ 
ings of every conceivable architecture that seemed to 
lean toward each other in a friendly conspiracy to shut 
out the glare and heat of the tropical sun. Dating 
from Colonial days the Ouvidor remains as the 
fashionable shopping district of Rio. Here no vehicles 
of any kind are allowed and at any hour of the day 
one may see throngs of well-dressed pedestrians of all 
nationalities passing up and down in a continuous 
stream that overflows the narrow pavements and takes 
as kindly to the street itself. Here women pause to 
chat with friends, or men stop to discuss business; 
hucksters cry their wares, and shops ply their trade— 
everyone smiling, contented, prosperous, a panorama 
of light and shade and varying color only appreciated 
by one standing in a balconied window of any second 
floor. 

The lawyer whom we sought had his offices over a 
china store through which we passed to a flight of 
stairs at the rear. There are no elevators in the Ouvi¬ 
dor. We mounted the stairs to the second floor and 
entered a small outer office where a young law-clerk 
[158] 


THE LAWYER’S STORY 


was sleepily droning to himself over a musty volume. 
At sight of us he rose with relief visible in his heavy 
eyes. He took the card I extended toward him, and 
vanished into the inner sanctum. An interminable wait 
during which I noticed how thick the film of dust which 
lay upon the book-shelves and how desolate the sound 
of McKelvie’s steps upon the bare floor as though we 
were the first clients to disturb that ancient quiet that 
seemed to brood over the room; and then the young 
man reappeared to say that Senhor Santiago would re¬ 
ceive us. He held the door open for us to pass through, 
then reluctantly closed it behind us, shutting himself 
out from participation in our conference. When the 
door was shut tight against further intrusion, Santiago 
emerged from behind a large desk very much as Nep¬ 
tune is said to rise from the sea, an old man with a 
flowing white beard and merry brown eyes, the eyes 
of youth in the wrinkled face of a sage. I was con¬ 
scious of the guilty feeling that we had interrupted his 
mid-afternoon nap. 

“In what way can I serve you, Professor Potter?” 
he inquired politely in very good English, glancing from 
my card to ourselves, undecided which to address. 

I hastened to set him right and presented McKelvie. 
Then we got down to business. McKelvie produced 
the photograph and explained how he had obtained it 

[i59] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


and repeated everything that Judith had told us con¬ 
cerning its effect on her husband. 

The lawyer accepted the picture and examined it 
attentively. “I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint 
you,” he said presently to my companion. “I have no 
idea who the lady is. I have never seen this photograph 
before and yet—it reminds me of someone.” He knit 
his brows in an effort to recall the elusive memory, then 
he shook his head. “I can’t place it,” he said, regret¬ 
fully. 

“Now that you speak of it,” I interposed, “the pic¬ 
ture also reminds me of someone, but whom I don’t 
know; someone I have seen recently, I am sure.” 

McKelvie looked at us as though he thought we were 
a couple of dunder-heads, then he again addressed 
Santiago. 

“You may not know who the original of this picture 
is, but you do know how it came into your possession. 
Are you willing to tell me just what your connection 
has been with this affair?” 

“But, certainly. There is no reason why I should 
not. My trust ended when I placed the lacquer box 
in Ramalho’s hands,” returned the lawyer, obligingly. 
“Let me see—it was two years ago that a man came 
into my office—a man of middle-height, slender, of 
some thirty-six years, quiet, good-looking with brown 
[160] 


THE LAWYER’S STORY 

eyes and very black hair, in fact, a gentleman and a 
Brazilian-” 

At this point I interrupted him to exclaim in amaze¬ 
ment, “Benjamin Garcia!” 

McKelvie glanced at me quickly with questioning 
eyes and I nodded emphatically. The lawyer smiled. 

“You know him, then? He gave me no name, so 
that I cannot say whether you are right or not. He 
handed me a lacquer box, and explained that its con¬ 
tents were of great importance; in fact, so valuable that 
he desired them to be well guarded until such time as 
Ramalho came into the inheritance. I was not to let 
anyone know of the existence of the box unless a certain 
event came to pass.” 

He opened a drawer, took out a file and hunted 
through it until he found the paper which he sought. 

“On the day that I received from him a cablegram 
worded in a certain way, I was to take the box to 
Ramalho. Toward the end of June, I received the fol¬ 
lowing—and I carried out all instructions to the letter.” 

He extended the cablegram and McKelvie and I bent 
over it eagerly. 

“Do everything as told here. Take box Ramalho 
July 3.” The cablegram was unsigned. 

“How did you know that the cablegram came from 
the right person?” I inquired, as McKelvie continued 
to study the message. 


[161] 



THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“He had agreed with me as to the form of wording. 
He also told me it would be sent in English,” replied 
the lawyer. 

“Why?” asked McKelvie, laying the cablegram on 
the desk. 

“I do not know—unless he desired no one but my¬ 
self to know its contents.” 

“Did you not think this man’s request a strange one? 
Did you make no attempt to learn something of his 
antecedents and who he was before accepting this 
trust?” queried McKelvie. “How did you know that it 
would be to Ramalho’s interest to receive this box?” 

The lawyer raised deprecating hands. “To under¬ 
stand my motive, Mr. McKelvie, I should be forced to 
bore you with the Ramalho family history,” he said. 

“I do not think you will bore us, Senhor,” returned 
McKelvie, quietly. 

“As you wish. About forty-one years ago Manoel 
Ramalho, the father of Duarte, went to Paris to study 
art. For ten years he remained abroad and nothing 
was heard from him. Then unexpectedly he turned up 
in Rio with a six-months-old son. He let it be known 
that he was a widower and intrusted the child to his 
sister. A year later, however, he married a Brazilian 
girl of wealth and by that marriage he had two daugh¬ 
ters, Helena and Maria Theresa.” 

[162] 


THE LAWYER’S STORY 


“So Duarte Ramalho was only a step-brother of Mrs. 
Clinton’s,” commented McKelvie. “I had rather 
imagined from what Professor Potter said that Ramalho 
was younger than his sister.” 

“No, he was about three years older, but he was very 
irresponsible, a social butterfly, fond of a good time 
just like his father before him,” answered the lawyer. 
“When the father died, it was discovered that his money 
had been pretty well squandered and there was nothing 
much for the children. But Helena had married well, 
and so, of course, the others were cared for.” 

He shrugged and resumed. “The father never said 
so, but I always had a sneaking suspicion that his first 
wife was a Parisian. When this unknown man came 
to my office two years ago he explained that he repre¬ 
sented relatives of this lady and that the box was an 
inheritance which would belong to Duarte in the course 
of time. He asked me to keep the box to prevent its 
falling into the hands of avaricious relatives. So I ac¬ 
cepted the trust.” 

“Did you know what the box contained?” 

“No, it was locked.” 

“And this man gave you no inkling of the contents?” 

“No. I inferred that it contained jewels,” replied 
the lawyer. “You told me, did you not, that the photo¬ 
graph was in it?” 

“ Yes, that and some letters.” 


[163] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


The lawyer stroked his beard. “I can’t understand 
why this man should stress the value of a few letters 
and a picture. You are certain there were no jewels?” 

“No, I am not certain. I was not interested in the 
box itself, but in what those letters may have con¬ 
tained,” responded McKelvie, rising. “Thank you for 
your consideration in receiving us, Senhor,” he added 
as we took our leave. 

The merry brown eyes twinkled kindly at us. “If 
I can serve you again, please call on me,” bowed the 
sage. 

Downstairs McKelvie paused beside a counter taste¬ 
fully displaying Chinese ware. Among the jars and 
trays was a match-holder representing a mask of death. 
McKelvie picked it up and spoke in an undertone as he 
pretended to admire it. 

“Did you notice anything queer about that cable¬ 
gram?” he asked. 

“Queer? No, I can’t say that I did. The only 
thought that occurred to me was that it must have been 
rather expensive to send,” I returned in the same 
guarded tones for which I could see no particular motive 
since we were conversing in English. 

“Yes, that was it. The last five words would have 
been explicit enough. So I took the trouble to study 
those first five. Do you know what they spelled?” 
[164] 


THE LAWYER’S STORY 

And when I shook my head, he held out the match- 
holder. “This is what they spelled,” he said. 

I thought he had gone suddenly daft. How could 
five cabled words spell a match-holder? Seeing my ex¬ 
pression, he put down the object and took from his 
pocket a pencil and his card. On the back he scribbled 
a few words and then passed it to me. This is what 
I saw: 

Do Everything As Told Here. DEATH. 

“Do you get it now? It spelled death. I wonder 
whether the old chap upstairs knew that?” he ques¬ 
tioned. “Turn your back to the stairs and employ 
yourself admiring the glassware. Here he comes now.” 

We ensconced ourselves behind some tall vases and 
out of the tail of my eye I awaited the lawyer’s advent. 
To my surprise the sleepy-looking clerk sauntered idly 
by toward the door. Instantly McKelvie made after 
him with me in tow. We could just discern the lanky 
form darting in and out of the crowd and we quickened 
our pace to keep him in view. I had no idea why Mc¬ 
Kelvie deemed it necessary to follow the clerk who had 
not the appearance of one sufficiently wide-awake to 
know what was taking place around him; but I kept 
my eyes riveted on that lean figure, determined that it 
should be through no fault of mine if we should lose 
sight of the quarry. And just as the resolution crossed 

[165] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

my mind, he turned a corner and vanished as though 
the earth had opened and swallowed him up. 

McKelvie was not in the least upset by this miracu¬ 
lous disappearance. He drew me aside and we stood 
looking in at the window of a store on the Carioca until 
a satisfied nod told me that my companion had learned 
whatever it was that he hoped to discover. 

“He has just left his burrow; in other words, that 
telegraph office on the corner. We will now go over 
and see what he was up to,” remarked McKelvie in a 
cheerful voice. 

“So that is what became of him,” I returned inanely. 
“To whom do you suppose he has seen fit to send a 
message?” 

“If I knew I should not be putting myself to the in¬ 
convenience of finding out. By the way, we will use 
the chief of police’s card and you will doubtless have 
to translate the message for me.” 

He gave me the card and entering the office I handed 
it to the operator, telling him that I desired to see the 
telegram that had just been handed in. The man be¬ 
hind the desk made no demur. He removed a sheet of 
paper from a pile before him and laid it on the counter. 
I took in the message at a single glance. 

“Well?” demanded McKelvie impatiently, as I stood 
and stared at the paper before me. 

“It reads, ‘The hounds are on the scent. Shall I 
[ 166] 


THE LAWYER’S STORY 

draw a red herring across the trail?’ ” I returned. “It 
is signed ‘Niccolo.’ ” 

“And to whom is it addressed?” 

“Why, to Gilbert Parrish in Petropolis,” I answered, 
slowly. 


1167 ] 


CHAPTER XIV 


GOMEZ’S ASSISTANT 

“And now, Professor, if you will be so kind as to 
see me to Police Headquarters, we’ll call it a day—for 
you,” said McKelvie whimsically when we had left the 
telegraph office and had traversed several blocks in 
silence. 

“You are going to consult with Diago about the tele¬ 
gram?” I asked with interest. 

“In a way. I am going to have Parrish brought to 
Rio. Since the message was sent to him, he should be 
the one to explain its meaning to us. In the meantime 
I am going to work at the case from another angle. I 
have a feeling that James Bentley is not so far from 
Rio as St. John implied. I can get information about 
him from the police more quickly than from any other 
source.” 

“You will let me know the result?” I demanded 
eagerly. 

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll take you with me when 
I call upon him, provided of course that my guess 
proves correct.” 

[168] 


GOMEZ’S ASSISTANT 


In view of which I half-expected to hear from him 
that evening, but when no word was forthcoming from 
him by eight o’clock I came to the conclusion that his 
deduction had proved to be founded purely on his de¬ 
sire to find this man rather than upon any basic reason¬ 
ing from fact. But I was in error. I might have known 
that McKelvie’s intuition would not lead him very far 
astray. At eight-thirty Cesario came upstairs to the 
studio where I was playing checkers with Tom’s son 
and announced that Senhor McKelvie wished to see 
me. 

When I descended to the lower hall, the young man 
drew me into the library and closed the door. 

“Can you come calling with me to-night? We’ll 
make it quite ceremonious and proper,” he said, smil¬ 
ing broadly. 

He was in such excellent high spirits that I jumped 
at once to the conclusion that he had learned something 
of importance. 

He assented. “James Bentley is practicing medicine 
under the sheltering wing of a Doctor Gomez who lives 
a few doors from here,” he began when I interrupted 
him. 

“The birdlike doctor,” I exclaimed in genuine won¬ 
derment. “What a coincidence that I should have 
called him in the night of the murder.” 

“Not coincidence, but luck. The fates smile upon 

[169] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


us. Since you know him we shall not have to be quite 
so ceremonious after all. But come, I’ll tell you what 
I have learned as we walk over.” 

I secured my top-hat and gloves and followed Mc- 
Kelvie through the sweet-scented garden to the gate 
where he paused to draw my attention to the perfection 
of the evening. The poignancy, the nearness of the 
beauty of the tropics grips one, compelling one to pause 
and admire, too strong to be ever completely ignored. 

It was a pleasantly warm, star-lit night with a gentle 
breeze stirring the leaves of the trees behind us and 
wafting to us the intoxicating perfumed breath of 
myriad blossoms. Across the way the lights of Nicthe- 
roy winked feebly back at the brilliant lamps that girt 
the shore, while between them like a lake of glass lay 
the smooth dark waters of the bay. 

McKelvie drew a long breath. “No wonder passions 
run high in this land of beauty and enchantment; that 
a woman’s smile can make or mar the life of a man. 
A night like this and the irresistible charm of a beauti¬ 
ful woman and what chance would a man have against 
such a combination? Is it the heat? I vow the blood 
is whipping through my veins at twice its normal rate 
this minute.” He removed his hat and mopped his 
damp brow. 

I couldn’t help smiling. “It’s a good thing, then, 
that we are not calling on a lady,” I remarked. “In 

[ 170] 


GOMEZ’S ASSISTANT 


your present romantic state you might find yourself 
caught in the meshes of matrimony.” 

His eyes twinkled maliciously. “When I call on the 
Countess, Professor, I shall go in the daytime and wear 
smoked glasses. I advise you to do the same, for if I 
am any judge of men, you are in far more danger 
than I.” 

I felt myself blushing, for subconsciously the 
countess had been in my thoughts from the moment 
that I first laid eyes on her; I spoke curtly. “If we 
are going to call on Gomez we had better be starting.” 
I walked on, anxious to hide my confusion from the 
scrutiny of those sharp eyes. 

“And I promised to regale you with Bentley’s private 
history,” he returned, catching up to me. “Six months 
ago the St. Johns came to Rio upon the appointment 
of their father as American Consul. Judith was mar¬ 
ried a month later. Either Ramalho was a fascinating 
wooer or else she was glad to accept him out of pique. 
I’m going to wager that she wanted to show James 
Bentley that he wasn’t the only pebble on the beach. 
About a month ago the latter came to Brazil and offered 
himself as assistant to Doctor Gomez. That is all the 
police know, but recalling St. John’s statement we are 
free to make a few deductions. Tell me this. Why 
should Bentley give up a lucrative practice in New York 

1171 j 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


to come to a foreign country and play second fiddle to 
another physician ? 5 ’ 

“The obvious answer is that he followed in Judith’s 
footsteps.” 

“He must have known that she was married and 
therefore lost to him since Ramalho’s religion would 
forbid a divorce,” continued McKelvie, thoughtfully. 
“I’ll have to have a better reason than that, Professor.” 

“He may have been very much in love with her and 
may have felt that he could never be happy unless he 
could see her occasionally,” I opined. 

He held up the suggestion to scorn. “You are hope¬ 
lessly old-fashioned. Such romantic rubbish is out of 
date. Besides, mankind is fundamentally selfish. No 
man would act as you presuppose without an ulterior 
motive,” he retorted. 

“I should,” I replied with some dignity, “and I have 
faith to believe that there are others who are not wholly 
materialistic.” 

He laughed. “Is that an accusation? But I am not 
altogether a worshiper of Baal. The fault lies in the 
fact that I see so much that is unworthy in human 
nature that faith has become gradually weakened. But 
we won’t quarrel over my attitude. We have too much 
at stake at present. To get back to our discussion. 
Since you claim that Bentley has never been near the 

1172 ] 


GOMEZ’S ASSISTANT 


house, must we then assume a clandestine affair be¬ 
tween Judith and this man?” 

“Good heavens, no. Judith is an honorable girl!” 

“And yet, she is lying to save him,” put in McKelvie, 
frowning. “It’s an odd situation. We will have a 
chance to discuss it more intelligently after our inter¬ 
view.” 

We turned into the doctor’s garden and approached 
the door of his house which stood hospitably open. At 
our knock a dusky maid ushered us into a small recep¬ 
tion-room under the impression no doubt that we were 
prospective patients. The next moment the little doctor 
came hurrying toward us, looking more like a robin 
than ever in his tail-coat as he took several short 
steps with his head thrust forward and then halted with 
a jerk before us. 

“Senhor Potter, this is an unexpected pleasure.” The 
bright little eyes were cocked on my companion’s face 
as the doctor bowed to us. I presented McKelvie, 
whereupon the little man was quite overcome with the 
honor of having so distinguished a caller, or so he con¬ 
veyed to McKelvie in his proper English. All of which 
McKelvie accepted complacently as his due. 

“.You wish to consult me about this shocking affair?” 
asked the doctor presently when we were comfortably 
seated. He was shrewd enough to realize that we had 

[ 173 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 
not called upon him merely for the sake of enjoying his 
society. 

“I came, Doctor, to consult your assistant, James 
Bentley,” responded McKelvie. 

The doctor leaned closer. “You are a swift worker, 
Mr. McKelvie, to have learned already that James 
knows something of importance. But if you can get 
anything out of him you will be doing well. He has 
been acting very strangely since that night, nor will he 
say where he was.” He rose and went toward the door. 
“I’ll ask him to come in for a moment.” 

“One word before you summon him,” interposed Mc¬ 
Kelvie quickly. “Why did he offer himself to you, 
Doctor? You are clever enough to know that he is 
not just beginning the practice of medicine,” he in¬ 
timated in a flattering voice. 

The doctor perched on the threshold for a reply, a 
smile of pleasure on his gypsy face. “He is really quite 
a well-known surgeon in your country, Mr. McKelvie. 
Some time ago he injured the muscles of his hand during 
an operation, the slip of a knife, I believe, and since 
then he has been unable to carry on his chosen pro¬ 
fession. He was ordered to go abroad and rest. He 
told me he could not bear to be idle and would be glad 
to render me such assistance as lay within his power. 
My practice is larger than I can well handle alone. I 
accepted his offer.” 

[i74] 


GOMEZ'S ASSISTANT 


“Thank you. I will see him, now, if you please.” 

When the doctor had gone I turned to McKelvie with 
something like triumph for a vindicated ideal in my 
glance. “Where is your fine theory of ulterior motive, 
now, Mr. McKelvie? He came to Brazil instead of 
going abroad because Judith drew him to this part of 
the world.” 

“Not proven, for she was a secondary motive,” he 
replied. “It was accident, not Judith, that caused him 
to leave New York. And we still have to show that 
there is no agreement between them. Now I wonder 
what he can know of this murder. Being a Southerner, 
he’ll be closer than a clam, especially if his knowledge 
concerns the girl. It’s up to me to see how well I can 
beat him at his own game.” He broke off abruptly as 
Gomez returned followed by James Bentley. 

A tall thin chap on the sunny side of thirty with a 
long mournful countenance and restless brown eyes, the 
doctor’s assistant was none too pleased to meet us. He 
nodded stiffly as he was introduced and seated himself 
ungraciously at Gomez’s urgent request. He would 
have preferred, I think, to pace the room. 

I wondered how McKelvie would begin the attack. 
A flank movement was his method of opening the battle 
of wits between them. He drew out his cigarette case 
and offered it to Bentley. The latter stretched forth 
a long thin hand to help himself, then as if he had 

117s ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


changed his mind, he said, somberly, “I only smoke one 
brand, thank you.” 

“Russian?” It was a long shot but it told. 

Bentley nodded and shrugged. “I left my case up¬ 
stairs, so will have to forego the pleasure for the time 
being.” 

“A good thing,” retorted Gomez. “He smokes en¬ 
tirely too much. I don’t think he realizes half the 
time that he is doing it and it’s making him as nervous 
as a cat.” 

The brown eyes moved questingly from object to ob¬ 
ject around the room but the man made no counter re¬ 
mark. McKelvie continued. 

“Doctor Bentley, without doubt Doctor Gomez has 
told you that I am investigating the circumstances of 
Ramalho’s death. All the evidence points strongly in 
one direction-” 

“She didn’t do it,” Bentley interrupted fiercely, his 
face working. “She didn’t do it, I tell you. I know 
she didn’t do it.” He was so vehement that he sounded 
like a man who is trying to convince himself of the 
truth of his own statement. 

“That is your belief. The dagger is hers; she was 
unhappy; she wanted to marry you-” 

“Who told you that!” The words leaped unbidden 
to the surface, and a light like the dawning of hope 
irradiated his countenance, lifting the gloom. 

[176] 




GOMEZ’S ASSISTANT 


“I deduced it. What proof have you to offer that 
she did not kill her husband ?” interjected McKelvie 
sharply, extinguishing by his words the radiance of 
Bentley’s face. 

“She is incapable- ’ 

“In a moment of passion one is capable of un¬ 
dreamed-of actions,” retorted the other. 

Bentley got to his feet, his hands clenched, his brows 
drawn together in sullen defiance. “I’ve got one proof. 
Judith is left-handed. The blow was struck by a right- 
handed person,” he said slowly. 

I gazed at him as though I thought he had taken leave 
of his senses, and indeed he looked the madman with 
his hair awry and that wild expression in his eyes. I 
saw Gomez lift his hands as much as to say, “I might 
have known it would lead to this”; and I noted his air 
of bewilderment when McKelvie spoke to the young 
surgeon as if he believed his statement the acme of 
logical reasoning. 

“You are a doctor and I presume you can back your 
remark. Would you mind explaining to me how you 
arrived at this conclusion of yours which if it be correct 
throws out entirely the testimony of the police physi¬ 
cian on that point?” 

“Yes,” said Bentley harshly, “I can prove it. Penna 
is a good doctor, but he’s not a surgeon. I had a talk 
with him on this very subject. He claims that the knife 

[ 177] 



THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


slanted to the right and that therefore it must have been 
wielded by the left hand. The conclusion does not fol¬ 
low from the premise. The slant of the weapon depends 
entirely upon the respective positions of the murderer 
and his victim.” He paused to glance at McKelvie. 
Finding that the other was giving him his undivided 
attention, Bentley went on. “Suppose the two had been 
standing so that the murderer struck from a sidewise 
position with his right hand, so,” he swung his arm 
from right to left in illustration, “then the dagger would 
have gone in on the slant and it would have pointed 
toward the right.” 

McKelvie protested vigorously. “You are wrong. 
A sidewise blow such as you describe would have no 
great force. Besides, it is too awkward. The blow was 
struck direct, and with a good deal of power back of 
it, Penna said.” 

“A large man could have struck the way I described. 
He might even have had his left arm around his victim’s 
shoulder to lull suspicion,” insisted Bentley. 

“You might as well give it up, Mr. McKelvie,” inter¬ 
posed Gomez resignedly. “On that point he is pig- 
headedly stubborn and will not budge an inch.” 

“Why should I? Does anyone know how the two 
were standing? Of course not, since there were no eye¬ 
witnesses, Until we definitely prove that they were 
facing each other my argument is as good as the next 
[178] 


GOMEZ’S ASSISTANT 


man’s and I’m going to stick to it. Besides, Ramalho 
was not killed by the dagger found on the table. That 
dagger was in my possession at the time of the murder.” 
He spoke defiantly, daring us to contradict him if we 
could. 

McKelvie looked up sharply. “Just what do you 
mean?” 

“I called on Judith the afternoon of the murder. I 
know I had no right to but I was parched for a sight 
of her and so—I defied convention. She was in the 
arbor, reading. The sight of me startled her; she 
dropped her book. Later when she had gone back to 
the house I found the dagger on the ground. I put it 
mechanically in my pocket.” He paused to take a 
fresh grip upon his emotions, then continued glumly: 
“When dinner was over I went for a walk. My steps 
carried me to Judith’s house. I had the dagger with 
me. It was valuable and I decided to return it before 
she discovered her loss. I passed through the garden 
and seeing a light in the library I stepped in. The room 
was empty. I laid the dagger on the table and hurried 
away.” 

“What time was this?” 

“About eight-ten or at most eight-fifteen,” he replied, 
thickly. 

There was a moment’s tense silence broken by Mc- 

[ 179 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


Kelvie’s terse tones. “How do you account for the 
blood on the hilt?” 

Doctor Bentley’s eyes came to rest on McKelvie’s 
face, wavered and moved on to the open window, which 
seemed to beckon him, for he approached it and stood 
leaning against the jamb as one in need of a draft of 
air to cool his fevered brow. 

“I had cut my finger during the day. In putting on 
my gloves the wound opened and bled a little. I han¬ 
dled the dagger with that hand,” he answered with 
difficulty. 

“You have given me something to think about at any 
rate,” said McKelvie presently when the silence 
threatened to become oppressive. “Two more ques¬ 
tions and I’ll cease to bother you. Did you see the 
Senhora Ramalho this afternoon?” 

Bentley’s face darkened as he swung toward us again, 
then it cleared. “I called on Judith merely to tender 
my sympathies,” he replied briefly. 

“Who suggested that you meet in the arbor?” 

“That is a question that I do not choose to answer,” 
was the haughty assertion. 

A slight movement of McKelvie’s lips indicated that 
the question had been answered very satisfactorily. 
Then we rose to take our leave. Outside the doctor’s 
gate, McKelvie shook his head. 

“That’s a clever young man. I wish I had had the 
[ 180 ] 


GOMEZ’S ASSISTANT 


chance to view the body. One can’t put one’s trust 
in the evidence of another’s eyes. Now I wonder which 
doctor is in the right?” 

“What about the dagger? Do you think he was tell¬ 
ing the truth?” I inquired. 

“He’s no fool, that is certain. But you can answer 
that question better than I. Was the dagger on the 
table before dinner?” 

“As surely as I’m standing here,” I affirmed. I was 
not mistaken; on that point I was willing to swear if 
necessary. 

McKelvie raised his brows significantly. “Men in 
love are mad sometimes. He has probably rehearsed 
an alibi for her to the extent that now he believes in 
it as a reality.” 

“Why did you not end his misery, then, and tell him 
that she is innocent?” I demanded. 

“I’m playing them one against the other. I wanted 
to find out what was on his mind. But there is Diago’s 
car. He promised to pick me up. I’ll phone you in 
the morning if I need you. In the meantime here is 
something to think about. Did you notice that Bentley 
stretched out his left hand for the cigarette? His right 
is practically useless.” 

Now what did McKelvie mean by that remark? It 
was not until I was turning in at Tom’s gate that the 
significance of the statement came over me. I had 

[181] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


thought that Bentley was exercised over the question 
of the kind of thrust administered purely on Judith’s 
account. Now I realized that it was on his own. If 
his right hand was useless, he was to all intents and 
purposes left-handed. Add to that the fact that he 
smoked Russian cigarettes, was foolish enough to admit 
that the weapon was in his possession at the time and 
refused to tell Gomez where he had been that night and 
one could build a pretty strong case against him. Why 
hadn’t McKelvie questioned him more closely? It 
seemed to me that the former had been negligently 
neglectful of an opportunity. Or had he been afraid of 
putting Bentley on his guard? 


[ 182 ] 


CHAPTER XV 


THE ARREST 

The very next morning I had an unexpected visitor. 
I was at work in the library when Cesario came in to 
say that a lady was waiting to see me. Knowing but 
one lady outside the family, I was not surprised to dis¬ 
cover that my fair caller was the beautiful countess. 
She extended her hand with an imperious gesture and 
when I had bent over it and murmured that I was de¬ 
lighted to see her, she broke into fiery speech in rapid 
French. Her English was inadequate to do the subject 
full justice. 

“Professor Potter, ma foi, what do you think these 
imbeciles have done!” she exclaimed angrily. “They 
have arrested him, my husband, my Gilbert. They say 
he killed Duarte Ramalho.” She laughed scornfully. 
“Does a man kill his best friend, I ask you? Oh, the 
imbeciles, the idiots!” She was walking up and down 
the reception-room like a caged lioness. 

“My dear countess,” I returned, more taken aback 
by the news of her marriage than by that of the arrest, 

[183] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“pray be calm. Won’t you be seated? I can help you 
only when I know the whole story from the beginning.” 

She beat her hands together excitedly. “Be calm? 
But I can’t be calm. They have arrested him, I tell 
you. Does not that mean anything to you?” 

“It means that he is in jail,” I replied prosaically. 
“But I cannot release him. Why have you appealed 
to me?” 

“The police say I must have an order of release from 
an American detective who has charge of the case. 
You are American and they say you know him. You 
can ask him to let Gilbert go.” She glided up to me 
and took my hand. “Have you no heart, Monsieur?” 
she asked in a softly, pleading voice. “We were just 
married. They have spoilt our honeymoon. Surely 
you will have him released, will you not?” She gave me 
a melting glance from those glorious eyes that set my 
pulses to stirring strangely and I, Professor Potter, old 
bachelor that I was, pushed aside the terrifying thought 
that she was married to this man, lifted her hand to my 
lips and pledged myself to her service, stumblingly, 
like a callow youth in the first crude moments of in¬ 
fatuation. 

She rewarded me with a smile which meant that 
everything was happily arranged and I hastened to 
disabuse her mind of any such notion. 

“Mr. McKelvie is unfortunately a rather unsenti- 
[ 184] 


THE ARREST 


mental young man,” I explained. “He may not be so 
anxious to serve you as I am.” 

She laughed. “Just leave him to me, Professor Pot¬ 
ter,” she answered confidently. 

“He has no use for women,” I warned her. 

A flash of white teeth between parted lips showed her 
amusement. “You are very naive, Professor. No man 
can refuse a request made to him by a beautiful woman 
if she knows how to use her powers. Rut, please, 
please, hurry. I can’t bear to think of Gilbert locked 
in a horrid cell. I have a taxi waiting at the door.” 

I stopped long enough to apprise McKelvie by phone 
of our advent that we might not find him gone, and then 
I followed her to the waiting machine. We were 
strangely silent as we drove around the bay to the 
house of the chief of police. She was thinking of her 
husband and I was wondering whether I had played 
the fool in her eyes. So distractingly lovely was she 
that in the nearness of her presence I forgot everything 
that I should have remembered; that she was married 
and that her husband had taken the life of a human 
being. 

McKelvie was waiting for us and he suggested that 
we drive to the station-house immediately since we 
could converse just as agreeably upon the way. This 
was said with a charming smile directed toward the 
countess to whom I had just presented him and who 

[ 185 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


acknowledged the introduction by following it up with 
subtle flattery. The male of the species is as suscepti¬ 
ble to flattery as the female whatever he may say and 
think upon the subject, and when I saw how McKelvie 
kept his eyes on her face I recalled a certain speech of 
his and wished devoutly that he had provided himself 
with that pair of smoked glasses. 

“And now, Countess, would you mind telling me how 
this unfortunate contretemps came about ?” he asked, 
kindly, in French. 

“Unfortunate contretemps!” Considering that he 
himself had ordered Parrish’s apprehension, McKelvie’s 
choice of term was just a trifle ironic. 

The countess was too engrossed in her own affairs 
to heed any incongruity between his words and his 
actions. Or else she was clever enough to let him have 
the word as a salve to his conscience. In any event she 
plunged at once into an account of her trouble. 

“We were married the morning of the sixteenth and 
went to Petropolis for our honeymoon. Last night a 
man came to our hotel and asked for Gilbert. We did 
not suspect foul play. We received the man. He pulled 
out an order for my husband’s arrest. I would have 
fought against such an indignity, but Gilbert, being 
wiser, said no, that it was best to return to Rio peace¬ 
ably. He was not guilty and could explain everything. 
When we got to Rio what do those idiots do? They 
[186] 


THE ARREST 


say they do not believe him and they lock him up! I 
begged and pleaded; I went down on my knees; I wept, 
and I tore my hair. They were adamant. I must see 
you, Monsieur, and secure your permission. You will 
release him for me, will you not?” She leaned closer 
and laid a hand on his, and there were actually tears 
in her beautiful eyes. 

“When I have questioned him—not before,” he said, 
harshly, drawing away from her as though he feared 
her softening influence. 

She was quick to note the action and as she dabbed 
her eyes with a ridiculous scrap of a lace handkerchief, 
her lips lifted slightly at the corners in a little smile 
of satisfaction. He was afraid of her and she took it 
as a sign that she was victor. She leaned toward him 
again, so close this time that he could not help inhaling 
the fragrance of her raven hair, and she spoke enticing¬ 
ly in her most dulcet tones; Delilah beguiling Samson 
could not have attempted it more effectively. I saw 
him close his eyes and turn his head away as she began. 

“Why do you want to question Gilbert, Mr. Mc- 
Kelvie? What can you hope to learn from him? He 
knows nothing of this murder. I swear it to you. 
Would he kill a man and then turn around and marry 
me? It is sacrilege to think it. He was with friends 
that night at eight. Ah, have pity upon me and let him 
go that we may return to Petropolis.” She seemed to 

[187] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


be pleading for her very soul’s peace as if her husband’s 
unjust imprisonment were more than she could bear 
with fortitude. Suddenly she added as though struck 
by the thought for the first time, “Surely you, too, do 
not think him guilty?” 

Abruptly he faced her and for a long moment he 
drank deep of the dark unfathomable pools that were 
her eyes; then he sighed. “No, Countess, I do not think 
him guilty—of this murder. You may have him back. 
I want to talk to him in a friendly way because he may 
be useful to me, that is all.” 

When he paused she shot a glance of triumph in my 
direction, but turned instantly to him once more as he 
went on to tell her of the murder of Garcia. “You have 
lived in Italy, Countess, and you are more familiar with 
its customs and manners than I. Tell me, did you ever 
hear of a society which has for its symbol the ivory 
skull?” 

Lender the potent spell of his voice she had been 
listening with dreamy eyes, her surroundings, her hus¬ 
band’s predicament, everything forgotten. She saw and 
heard only the man beside her. He had beaten her at 
her own game for he was impervious to her wiles. 

At mention of the skull she sat up and regarded him 
with wide-open, horrorstruck eyes. “The ivory skull,” 
she repeated, low. “No, never.” She sank into medita¬ 
tion from which she roused herself with an effort to 
[188] 


THE ARREST 


answer his question. “I do not know much of such 
things but I do not believe that a secret society would 
tattoo its members.” 

“Why not?” I inquired. 

She gave me a sweetly, superior smile, her poise re¬ 
gained. “Just think for a moment, Monsieur. What 
comment an unusual sight such as a tattoo would raise 
among a man’s companions. It would become bruited 
abroad and enemies would know how to spot their 
victims.” 

“You seem to know quite a lot about this sort of 
thing, Countess,” I remarked sourly. 

“Mon Dieu, Professor, I cannot live in a country 
where such things are frequent subjects of conversation 
and keep my ears sealed to shut out the knowledge. 
If one lives in the world, one must expect to learn all 
sorts of various things, both good and bad.” 

Whatever else she may have been going to add was 
indefinitely postponed by our arrival at the precinct 
where the delegado came out and handed the countess 
from the car the moment we drew up at the curb. They 
are at times too attentive, these fellows. 

When we entered the outer office, McKelvie told me 
to ask for Parrish. At an order from the delegado a 
uniformed policeman saluted and left the room. A 
moment later he returned, holding the door back for 
Parrish who limped forward with head flung high and 

1189 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


a defiant look on his haggard face. At sight of his wife, 
however, his hostile manner vanished; his eyes lighted 
up, and the scar on his cheek grew crimson and throb¬ 
bed like a quickened pulse. He went to her at once, 
murmuring some endearment the while he raised her 
hand to his lips; then he swung around to face Mc- 
Kelvie. For a space the two men so different in appear¬ 
ance and temperament, the one cool, self-possessed, the 
other, passionate, hot-headed, eyed each other in 
silence. When Parrish spoke his tone was bitter. 

“I understand that I owe my present ignominious 
predicament to your instrumentality. I have had some 
experience with the police before. I presume it would 
be useless to say that I am innocent?” 

“On the contrary,” responded McKelvie, quietly, 
“for I am not affiliated with the police. I came express¬ 
ly to set you at liberty. A misunderstanding was 
responsible for your being placed in a cell. I beg your 
pardon for the inconvenience to which you have been 
put. Before you go, however, I should like a few mo¬ 
ments conversation with you, but not in the presence of 
your wife.” 

The countess laughed gayly. “You are afraid, 
Monsieur, that I shall tell him what to say,” she 
declared playfully. 

“I am afraid your beauty will steal away my wits, 
Countess, and make me forget what it was that I de- 
[ 190] 


THE ARREST 


sired to know,” was the gallant reply from this young 
man who had no use for women. What would I not 
have given to have possessed his glib tongue. 

We abandoned the countess to the mercies of the 
delegado much to that gentleman’s secret delight while 
we gathered in an inner room, I to hear and Parrish to 
answer McKelvie’s inquiries. 


[ 1911 


CHAPTER XVI 


parrish's motive 

“To begin with,” said McKelvie when Parrish and 
I were seated, “I want to tell you that I know that you 
were responsible for the death of Garcia over a month 
ago.” 

“Not so loud, please,” begged Parrish, half starting 
up. “I would not have my wife know for anything in 
the world.” 

McKelvie obligingly lowered his voice. “I’m telling 
you this because I believe that frankness is best under 
the circumstances. You need have no fear, however, 
that I shall use the knowledge against you. Let the 
New York police revive the matter if they so choose.” 

“I thank you-” 

“Don’t,” interjected McKelvie sharply. “I happen 
to believe in retributive justice.” 

Parrish raised his brows, undecided how to take this. 
When McKelvie continued silent, the other asked, 
“Would you mind explaining how you discovered the 
truth concerning my connection with the Garcia affair?” 

McKelvie complied with the request, giving his 

e 192 ] 



PARRISH’S MOTIVE 

reasons for his deduction as he had already related them 
to me. 

“You are right,” answered Parrish, gloomily. “I 
killed him not because I wished him ill.—Good God, 
Mr. McKelvie, he was my brother!” he broke off, ab¬ 
ruptly. 

“Your brother?” Even McKelvie was taken aback 
by this revelation. “And you murdered him!” 

Parrish raised his hand as though to ward off a blow. 
“No, not murder. I swear it was not murder,” he ex¬ 
claimed in agitation. “I killed him, yes—but because 
he made me.” He buried his face in his hands and 
clutched wildly at his thick black hair. 

“Are you mad, Mr. Parrish?” McKelvie’s cool tones 
were incredulous. 

“I sometimes think I am,” was the muffled reply. 
“God, what I have lived through since that day!—but 
let me tell you my story. You can judge for yourself 
the extent of n^ guilt.” 

He rose and fell to pacing the stone floor while he 
talked. “I did not know that Garcia was my brother 
until he summoned me to him by cable. When my 
mother died we were just youngsters and as we had no 
kin and no means of support we were sent to an orphan¬ 
age. A year later I was adopted by an American lady 
residing in Florence. I lost track of my brother and 
when years later I tried to find out what had become 

11931 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


of him, the asylum could give me no definite informa¬ 
tion. Then I received his cable. I came to New York 
and met him at the Hotel Magnificent, as you know.” 

“How could you be sure that the cable was from your 
brother and not from an impostor?” asked McKelvie. 

“Because he had signed it with the childish name 
which I had bestowed upon him in my babyhood. No 
one else would know that diminutive,” responded 
Parrish. 

“Am I to understand then that Parrish is not your 
right name?” continued McKelvie. 

“It can’t be, and yet I know of no other that belongs 
to me. I was seven when I was adopted and though 
I have tried to recall I cannot remember having heard 
my mother’s last name spoken in my presence. Per¬ 
haps it is Garcia—I do not know.” 

He lapsed into brooding silence from which Mc¬ 
Kelvie roused him with a start. “I am waiting for the 
rest of the tale, Mr. Parrish,” said the latter impa¬ 
tiently. “You met Garcia and then?” 

“And then he told me one of the strangest stories 
that has fallen to the lot of man to hear. I took leave 
to doubt him in places—I was a fool. I have had 
ample proof since of the truth of his remarks.” 

He strode to the window and back again before he 
continued. “He told me that our mother was Italian 
by birth and that she came of a race that was accursed. 

1194] 


PARRISH’S MOTIVE 


Her sons were born marked. On their arms they bore 
the symbol of their doom—a human skull, a grinning 
skull maliciously foretelling of a death by violence.” 

Vehemently he rolled up his sleeve and displayed for 
our benefit upon the fleshy part above the elbow—a 
distended but otherwise perfect reproduction of the 
ivory skull which I had seen and handled! 

“That is no birthmark,” said McKelvie emphatical¬ 
ly. “The design has been pricked into the skin. It 
has been very skillfully done.” 

A twisted smile touched the corners of Parrish’s lips 
as he went on: “I had always thought it a freak of 
nature—a birthmark peculiar to me alone. But Garcia 
showed me the spot on his arm where he had succeeded 
in effacing the skull to such an extent that it was no 
longer recognizable as such. He explained that he had 
taken the precaution because we were accursed and he 
did not want the vengeance of the skull to overtake 
him. He begged me to do the same. I thought him 
mad.” 

“And so you refused to follow his advice?” remarked 
McKelvie, pointing to the tattoo. 

“It wasn’t that,” answered Parrish in a dull voice. 
“I am a fatalist. What is done, is done; and what is 
to be, will be in spite of all our efforts to the contrary. 
Garcia effaced the mark. Did that prevent the curse 
from taking him for its victim? But where was I? 

[ i9S ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


He told me that all his affairs were in order, that he had 
destroyed all evidence as to his true identity, which by 
the way he refused to reveal to me, saying that I was 
better off not to know, and then he showed me a card 
which bore the skull upon it as a symbol and the 
message in Italian that he had three days to live.” 

“If he wasn’t demented, at least he was mad with 
fear,” Parrish resumed after a slight pause. “For a 
month he had been receiving these cards, each one tell¬ 
ing him how many days of life were left to him until 
when I saw him he was frantic. He said there was no 
escape from death but he had evolved a scheme by 
which he would cheat the avenger. He had died a 
thousand deaths already and he was at the end of his 
endurance. He was a Catholic and dared not damn 
his soul by committing suicide. So he prayed, he or¬ 
dered, he commanded me to kill him. I refused. All 
through dinner he pleaded with me and throughout the 
walk we took afterwards. Then about eleven we re¬ 
turned to his room. He seemed resigned to my deci¬ 
sion and asked me to help him pass the time with a 
game of cards. Though I do make a good deal of 
money at poker and other games, I am not a crooked 
gambler. I depend on my proficiency and skill entirely. 
We had not played one hand when he accused me of 
cheating. I have a vile temper. It got the better of 
me and before I realized what I was doing I had picked 
[196] 


PARRISH’S MOTIVE 


up the steel paper-cutter from his desk and was 
threatening him with it. He looked into my face and 
laughed sneeringly. The wine I had consumed went 
to my brain and standing above him I drove the weapon 
home.” 

He paused to wet his dry lips. “When I saw what 
I had done I was in an agony of remorse, but he only 
smiled and said quietly, Tt was an unfair advantage I 
took of you, Gilbert. Forgive me but there was no 
other way out for me. Put the cards back where they 
belong and go.’ In a daze I did as he bade me and it 
was only when I reached the street that I recalled my 
appointment with Vardusi.” 

“That was not manufactured evidence, then?” 
queried McKelvie with keen interest. 

“That was the ironic part of the whole affair,” re¬ 
turned Parrish with a bitter smile. “I had called Var¬ 
dusi on the long-distance in the morning after I had 
come ashore because I had been commissioned by him 
to carry a message to the Italian government. It had 
something to do with some money he was giving them 
and he did not wish his name to appear in the trans¬ 
action. That is why we met in secret. Any time after 
eleven he would be waiting for me at his house. I 
reached his home about a quarter to twelve and was 
with him at midnight. When he testified in my behalf 
he was absolutely honest in his conviction. It was the 

[ 197] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


doctor who was at fault in placing the crime a half 
hour later than it really occurred.” 

“How is it that the hotel clerk claimed to have seen 
you there at twelve-twenty?” 

“I went back. I left Vardusi at twelve-five with the 
thought of my deed obsessing me. I had walked up 
one flight when it occurred to me that perhaps Garcia 
had already been discovered. If I were found near the 
scene of the crime someone might recall having seen 
us together. I was not really to blame for his death. 
I turned and fled again. 

“Now I come to the part of the whole proceeding 
that I have never understood. Perhaps you can explain 
it to me. In the morning I read the account of the 
crime in the papers and of course when I was ordered 
to appear at the inquest I thought out a story which I 
decided to stick to no matter what happened. But that 
is past history. This is what troubles me. If I stabbed 
Garcia at eleven-thirty, how does it happen that the 
crime was placed at twelve and where did the brand 
come from? Until that awful moment at the inquest 
when they showed me a reproduction of the brand I 
had not really believed in the existence of the skull.” 

“To my mind the thing is simple enough, although I 
may be entirely at fault,” responded McKelvie, “as I 
was in deducing Mr. Parrish’s guilt from the fact that 
he was supposedly present at the time of the real crime, 
[198] 


PARRISH’S MOTIVE 


which as it happens he was not,” he added for my 
benefit, frankly honest with himself where he could 
easily have imposed upon me. “It is my opinion that 
the avenger was in the hotel at the time,” he went on, 
speaking to Parrish. “He may even have had means 
of knowing Garcia’s plans. When he saw you leave 
he went into Garcia’s room. Any pretext would do. 
For a moment he thought himself cheated of his 
vengeance. Then he saw that you had not stabbed 
deep enough to kill outright. The weapon was blunt 
and Garcia’s clothing would present a certain amount 
of resistance. The avenger then taunted his victim and 
drove the knife in deeper. That would account for 
the doctor’s verdict and the look on Garcia’s face. 
Then the avenger branded his victim and left the hotel, 
the next day probably.” 

Parrish nodded agreement to this explanation. “I 
suppose it would be as you have described. After the 
inquest I could not bear to stay in New York. I hated 
myself for what I had done. I blamed Garcia for my 
misery. I dreaded the moment when I too should 
learn that I had but a few days to live. While I was 
in this state of indecision I met Nita. She was sailing 
for Brazil at the end of July. I determined to follow 
her. On shipboard I might be able to forget. And the 
first day out, you, Professor Potter,” he turned to me 
with the ghost of a smile, “accused me of having stolen 

[ 199 1 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


from you the ivory skull. What a mockery! I to steal 
the thing I was fleeing from! From then on, there was 
no more peace for me except in those moments when I 
was with Nita. She alone could make me forget. I 
avoided you as I would the plague. I believed you my 
enemy and your accusation a ruse to show me that 
there was no escape for me.” 

McKelvie waved aside my indignant protest. “The 
professor was only interested in the thing as a curio. 
You have heard nothing from it since you have been 
here?” 

“Not a thing.” 

“You are aware of course that Ramalho’s death pre¬ 
sented similar aspects to that of Garcia?” 

“I have been told the facts by the delegado . I did 
not know the man was dead until last night,” responded 
Parrish. 

“What made you call on him the afternoon of the 
fifteenth?” 

“I had known him abroad. There was something 
about him that appealed to me. As he was the only 
person that I knew in the city I called to ask him to 
witness my marriage.” 

“You told him this?” 

“Yes, and he returned that he would be delighted to 
support me. He seemed pleased with my good fortune 
particularly as he had known Nita in Paris also.” 

[ 2 oo ] 


PARRISH’S MOTIVE 

“Did you not wonder what had happened when he 
did not turn up for the wedding ceremony?” 

“No. He was very irresponsible. We were married 
quite early in the morning. I decided that he had over¬ 
slept or forgotten all about the matter.” 

“Then you did not know that Ramalho was in pos¬ 
session of the skull when you called upon him?” asked 
McKelvie presently, eying Parrish keenly. 

“Duarte in possession of the skull!” ejaculated Par¬ 
rish. “But that is preposterous. He couldn’t have 
been.” 

“According to Professor Potter, Ramalho had just 
received the skull before your arrival and he had spoken 
to the effect that he was a doomed man. Why do you 
discredit my statement?” 

“Because Garcia told me that the skull would never 
leave the hands of the avenger until every member of 
our race was destroyed,” replied Parrish fearfully. “If 
I had known that Duarte had it, I should have taken 
it and crushed it under foot! I should have freed my¬ 
self from the curse I am under that I might be at liberty 
to enjoy life again as in the days before I heard of the 
ivory skull!” He clenched his hands and shook them 
impotently above his head as though he would tear 
from them the imaginary shackles with which they were 
bound. Then suddenly he relaxed and shrugged his 
shoulders resignedly. “What is the use of railing 

[ 201 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


against fate. If Duarte had the skull he should have 
been in league with the avenger, yet his death proves 
him to have been a victim. Can it be that he is of my 
race, too?” 

“Perhaps, Mr. Parrish, and I shall do my best to 
learn the truth concerning this strange affair. You say 
you wish to be free. There is only one way to ac¬ 
complish that. Help me to put the avenger behind the 
bars,” returned McKelvie. 

A ray of hope lighted up the somber eyes of the man 
before us. “I will do all I can to help you.” 

“I want you to answer a, few questions. How long 
were you with Ramalho?” 

“About fifteen minutes. I wanted information con¬ 
cerning the necessary formalities to be gone through 
before I could get married.” 

“The countess was with you?” 

“Yes. She was as anxious as I to set the date for the 
wedding as early as possible.” 

“You noticed nothing out of the way about the ac¬ 
tions of Ramalho, nothing to indicate that he was under 
great mental stress?” pursued McKelvie. 

“I do recall that I thought he looked rather white 
and tired but he took me into the dining-room for a 
glass of port and after that he seemed quite himself 
again. I thought it might have been the unusual 
warmth of the day. I attached no importance to the 
[ 202 ] 


PARRISH’S MOTIVE 

matter. How could I possibly dream of such a con¬ 
tingency as occurred?” 

“What was your mother’s given name, Mr. Parrish? 
Or are you ignorant of that also?” 

“Her name was the same as that of my wife. Nita.” 

“Do you recall your father?” 

“Not at all. I understood he died when I was very 
young.” 

“Do you know anyone in Rio by the name of Nic- 
colo?” 

“Niccolo? No, I am sure I do not.” 

“He sent you a telegram yesterday afternoon. Didn’t 
you receive it?” 

“I had no message of any kind from anyone,” an¬ 
swered Parrish, perplexed. 

“Are you returning to Petropolis, Mr. Parrish?” 

“I think that now that I am in Rio, I shall stay on 
until this mystery is cleared up.” 

“I was not asking out of curiosity but in order to 
know where I could find you in case of necessity,” said 
McKelvie with a smile. 

“At the Gloria.” Parrish laid his hand on the knob 
of the door. “Nita will be getting anxious. If there is 
anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to let me 
know.” 

“I’ll call upon you. Thank you, Mr. Parrish.” 

1203 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

“You are entirely welcome. Good morning, gentle¬ 
men.” 

We waited until we heard the taxi drive away before 
we joined the delegado in the outer office; though, for 
my part, I should have liked to have spoken again to 
the countess before she left. But McKelvie was ob¬ 
durate and so I had to forego the pleasure. 

He had other things more important to think about, 
he said, than to stand around and chatter with a 
woman. At his request I informed the delegado that 
his next move was to get on the track of Fernandez, 
the dismissed gardener. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A PART OF THE TRUTH 

“In your place I should have kept Parrish in jail and 
have telegraphed New York where to find him,” I re¬ 
marked as we walked away from the police station. 
“Disguise it as you will, the man is still a murderer.” 

“I have no personal interest in the countess, Pro¬ 
fessor,” was the quick retort. “And as I told Parrish, 
I firmly believe that a man’s deeds will find him out 
in the end and that as he measures to another, so shall 
it be meted out to him again.” 

“She only married him to retrieve her fortune,” I 
said gloomily, my mind running in its original groove. 

“My dear fellow, none are so blind as those who 
won’t see. She married him for love. And you will 
infinitely oblige me if you never let her know the truth 
about her husband.” 

“So you don’t want to spoil her romance, eh? You’ve 
grown tender-hearted overnight, or is it since meeting 
the lady?” I inquired, at which he only laughed and 
retorted, “The man is not guilty this time. Let her 
enjoy her fool’s paradise while she may. And now let 

[205] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

us drop the lady from our conversation. I have a sub¬ 
ject of much greater interest to discuss with you. Did 
you notice the resemblance ?” 

“What resemblance?’' I asked, stupidly, trying to 
make connection between his rapid transition of ideas. 

“The very marked resemblance of Parrish to this 
picture.” He drew the photograph from his pocket. 
“The same contour of face, the same beauty and regu¬ 
larity of features and the same passionate temperament. 
And he said his mother’s name was Nita.” 

I let my eyes rest again upon that lovely face and 
I knew that McKelvie had divined aright. Parrish was 
the man whose resemblance to the picture I had been 
unable to place. So she was his mother. But then of 
what possible value was the picture to Ramalho? I 
put the query to my companion. 

“Apply your knowledge of logic to the problem,” he 
returned. “This is a picture of Garcia’s mother as 
well. He leaves it with the lawyer to be given to Ra¬ 
malho, ergo she was probably Ramalho’s mother, too.” 

“But the lawyer said that the latter’s mother was a 
Parisian,” I objected. I was floundering around in 
a sea of ideas, hopelessly lost and involved. 

“That was merely a guess on his part. He said dis¬ 
tinctly that he did not know positively,” replied Mc¬ 
Kelvie. 

“But in the event of your being correct, Ramalho 
[206] 


A PART OF THE TRUTH 

senior would then be the father of Parrish and Garcia 
as well. Why did he allow them to be sent to an orphan¬ 
age? Why did he not bring them to Brazil with him?” 
I pointed out. 

“I don’t recall discussing that side of the question,” 
he returned, drily. “I merely said that this was a pic¬ 
ture of their mother.” 

We traversed another block in silence with my com¬ 
panion deep in his own thoughts. Presently he nodded 
his head as if satisfied that he was correct in his reason¬ 
ing and continued the discussion where we had left off. 

“Parrish said that his mother’s sons were marked. 
Ramalho, too, bore the skull on his arm. I think I’m 
safe in claiming that the three men, Garcia, Parrish, 
and Ramalho were brothers.” 

“Not if Judith was correct in her assertion,” I 
responded. “She told us that the mark on her hus¬ 
band’s arm was made up of his initials.” 

“Judith was making that up as she did her other an¬ 
swers—out of whole cloth. See how everything fits in 
together like the pieces of a puzzle. Garcia, the oldest 
brother, is told the secret of the skull by his mother, 
we will say, with the injunction to warn his brothers 
when he knows that vengeance is to overtake him. He 
cannot be sure when this event will take place, but he 
receives an inkling of coming disaster. He prepares 
for any eventualities, by leaving with the lawyer a box 

[207] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


containing a letter revealing the story of the skull. 
Besides the letter he also incloses a photograph of the 
mother and such other evidence as is necessary to prove 
the authenticity of his statements. The box, however, 
is not to be delivered except under a certain circum¬ 
stance, that circumstance being of course the approach¬ 
ing death of Garcia. He did not care to tell the lawyer 
who he was, for fear of drawing attention to himself, 
and I assume that he devised the wording of the cable 
so that the lawyer could be under no misapprehension. 
If it bore the word, death, the box was to be delivered 
to Ramalho. As Ramalho was not a fatalist he took 
the same precaution that Garcia did. He effaced the 
mark.” 

“What earthly good did they suppose that would do 
them?” I interrupted. 

“Perhaps the avenger only knew his victims by the 
mark of the skull. By effacing it they hoped to put 
him off the track. That skull was pricked into the 
skin. It was no birthmark. It must have been done 
during infancy by a very clever person.” 

“Clever, when he waited thirty-odd years to avenge 
himself?” I was incredulous. 

“We do not as yet know his motive, Professor. The 
desire for vengeance will often make a man wait many 
years until the moment comes when his victim will 
suffer most keenly. The thing that troubles me is not 
[208] 


A PART OF THE TRUTH 

the length of time that elapsed between the marking 
of the victims and the carrying out of his revenge. Why 
did he change his tactics? Why did he send Garcia a 
card, and then risk losing the skull by giving it to 
Ramalho? In the latter’s place I should have done as 
Parrish suggested. I should have destroyed the thing.” 

“That would not necessarily avert death, would it?” 
I reminded him. 

“It was not death they feared. It was eternal dam¬ 
nation of their souls,” responded McKelvie seriously. 
“Why should X, as we called him before, avenge him¬ 
self on Garcia and then risk losing that chance with 
Ramalho? And why has he ignored Parrish so com¬ 
pletely?” 

“To me the whole thing is very far-fetched. I 
wouldn’t be surprised if Parrish was the avenger and 
his story a cock-and-a-bull yarn to put you off the 
scent. Didn’t Niccolo telegraph something about draw¬ 
ing a red herring across the trail?” 

McKelvie assented indifferently. “I do not think 
we have touched rock bottom yet by any means,” he 
said. “The affair has ramifications, and a great many 
loose ends, too many to suit me. I am going to attempt 
to tie a few of them up. I am going to cable the Paris 
police for information concerning the lady of the pic¬ 
ture, and while I am waiting for their reply I am going 
to learn all that I can concerning Ramalho’s life in the 

[ 209 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

city. It may happen of course that his death had noth¬ 
ing to do with this other matter and that the murderer 
branded the body as a blind. I do not think so, but 
one must not overlook any details no matter how 
trivial.” 

“Here is a detail that you are overlooking,” I said, 
after a moment’s thought. “When Ramalho received 
the skull, he exclaimed, ‘My wife’s brother—gave it to 
me. I did not know that he—’ And here is another. 
Bentley had the dagger in his possession at the time 
of the murder.” 

“Those are purely superficial, Professor. Bentley 
was lying. As for Ramalho’s remark, like the Delphic 
oracle, it is capable of a double interpretation. Ramalho 
was under the impression that the skull came from St. 
John. We know that the assumption was false, since 
St. John received the package at the gate. Ramalho, 
however, would not know that and he may have been 
wondering how much he had told St. John on previous 
occasions about the mark on his arm. It may have 
been in his mind that St. John belonged to the race of 
the avenger and that he was taking this way to repay 
Ramalho for his neglect of Judith.” 

“It sounds plausible when you explain it,” I returned. 

“But you are still skeptical?” He smiled at some 
conceit of his own. “To get back to the original topic. 
I am going to have a talk with Dolores Castro. She 
[ 210] 


A PART OF THE TRUTH 


dances at the Palacio to-night. Men often unburden 
themselves to women of her type and she may be able 
to aid us considerably. Meet me at the entrance at 
eight and I’ll engage to have a box.” He paused and 
eyed me thoughtfully. “She won’t be able to speak 
English, so that I shall have to depend on you, again, 
Professor.” 

“I’ll do my best, Mr. McKelvie, though I am not as 
expert as you at gauging the truth of a statement by 
the intonation of the voice or the expression of the 
eyes,” I returned. 

“Practice makes perfect. Try your hand at reading 
Mrs. Clinton’s mind again, will you? Don’t be so 
timid as you were the last time. Intimate that you 
know what the tattoo on Ramalho’s arm was and see 
whether her looks do not confirm your statement. Also 
find out what she knows of her brother’s life outside the 
home.” 

Our walk had carried us within a few blocks of police 
headquarters. “I’m due yonder for a conference with 
Diago. Until eight to-night, then,” he remarked. “Oh, 
by the way, Penna says the acid used in branding is a 
very old formula, a secret of the Medicis without a 
doubt. It attacks the human flesh but has no effect on 
ivory. X probably came across it in some ancient 
manuscript and put it to his own uses. Well, so long.” 

When I reached home it was luncheon time and after 

[ 211 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


our repast I asked Tom’s wife to spare me a few 
moments. She graciously acceded to the request and 
took me into the studio where she said we would be 
free from interruption. I was pondering how best to 
broach the subject when she opened the discussion her¬ 
self. 

“Have you learned anything yet, Senhor?” she asked 
anxiously. “Was the picture of any help to you? Tom 
says that even your detective has made little progress 
so far. I think it is so foolish to try to avenge Duarte’s 
death. Would it not be better to drop the matter at 
once?” 

Though she spoke anxiously, she had recovered 
much of her former placid serenity. 

“We may not have learned the entire truth, but we 
have had some success and it would be a pity to give 
up in sight of the goal. There is nothing for you to 
fear. Why did you think that harm would come to us 
if we meddled in this affair?” 

She lowered her voice. “It was what Tom said about 
the skull that frightened me.” 

“And what did he say?” 

When she remained silent, I added, “Dona Helena, 
in order to get at the truth Mr. McKelvie must know 
as much as possible concerning your brother. Why did 
he tell you that you must never mention the fact that 
he had a skull tattooed on his arm?” 

[ 212 ] 


A PART OF THE TRUTH 


Her eyes grew large with mingled terror and astonish¬ 
ment. “You know that, Senhor?” she whispered. 

“That and a good deal more. For instance I know 
that he was only your half-brother, and that he feared 
the vengeance of the ivory skull.” I was following 
McKelvie’s directions implicitly. 

She clasped her hands. “You are right, Senhor. I 
do not see how you can have learned all this, but it is 
the truth.” She broke off as she heard a step in the 
hall, then went on. “As I said before, I had always 
believed the tattoo a birthmark. So did he until he got 
that box from the lawyer in July. Whatever the con¬ 
tents, they terrified him and he made Judith, Maria 
Theresa and myself swear that we would never reveal 
the fact that once he carried the mark of a skull on 
his arm. He said that if we ever breathed such a thing, 
death and disaster would overtake the whole family. 
So when I heard of the brand on his body, I feared for 
my loved ones. That is why I kept silent.” 

“You need have no further apprehensions,” I re¬ 
assured her. “The vengeance, if such it be, applies only 
to his mother’s side of the family. You are not con¬ 
cerned in it at all. For myself I do not believe in such 
a thing. I think your brother was killed because some¬ 
one was jealous of him.” 

“Thank you, Senhor. Is there any other way in 
which I can be of help to you?” 


[ 2131 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“Do you know anything of your brother’s former 
mode of life outside the home?” I asked. 

She looked at me in genuine surprise. “What should 
I know? A man does not tell the women of his house¬ 
hold his affairs, Senhor.” 

“I suppose, then, that you would not know the name 
of your father’s first wife?” 

She shook her head. “I did not know that Duarte 
was only my half-brother until he told me himself in 
July. He gave me no details, nor mentioned who his 
mother was.” 

“Do you happen to know whether Neville St. John 
was in the house the night of the murder?” Having the 
opportunity before me, I decided to make the most of 
it and show McKelvie that I could be of service to the 
cause in more ways than one. 

“Judith’s brother? How should I know where he 
was that night, Senhor? You do not think that 
he-?” 

“He won’t tell us his whereabouts and he once 
threatened to kill your brother-” 

I got no further. With a choking cry Maria Theresa 
ran into the room and flung herself on her knees beside 
her sister. 


[ 214] 




CHAPTER XVIII 


MARIA THERESA'S CONFESSION 

“Why, Maria Theresa, what is the matter with 
you?” inquired Tom’s wife in alarm. “What has hap¬ 
pened to make you weep?” 

The girl raised a flushed and tear-stained face. “I 
heard what the Senhor said just now about Neveele. 
Oh, Helena, I’m a wicked, wicked girl and it is all my 
fault that Neveele won’t say where he was,” she ex¬ 
claimed, beginning to sob afresh. 

Dona Helena looked at her sister sharply. “What 
are you saying, child?” 

“It was all Duarte’s fault, really.” The girl crossed 
herself at mention of that name. “He refused to let 
Neveele marry me and I said that I would do as I 
pleased, that I would marry without his consent. And 
then he became angry and told me that if I disobeyed 
him my marriage would be accursed and that I would 
never be happy.” 

“I was afraid, then,” continued the girl, “but Neveele 
said that Duarte’s words had no power to hurt us— 

t 215 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


and so finally I told Neveele to arrange everything and 
I would do whatever he said.” 

“Maria Theresa!” exclaimed her sister, shocked. 

“I don’t care,” returned the rebellious one, her lovely 
eyes sparkling with resentment at memory of her 
wrongs. “The afternoon of the fifteenth, Neveele 
talked to Judith in the garden and gave her a note for 
me. In the note Neveele said that he had all arrange¬ 
ments made and that he would be waiting for me at 
the back-gate at seven-forty-five; I was to meet him 
there with my suitcase. 

“I packed my bag and hid it in my room and after 
dinner I was going to pretend to have a headache and 
so escape from the house. But Duarte remained home 
and as we left the dining-room he took me aside. 

“ ‘You think to meet your lover to-night and go 
away with him, don’t you?’ he inquired. ‘You might 
as well put the thought out of your mind for I have 
sent him word that you have decided to obey me. 
There will be no one waiting for you at the gate. Go 
upstairs to the drawing-room and help entertain Pro¬ 
fessor Potter.’ 

“I believed him and obeyed, but it would be just for 
that night, I decided. In the morning I would go to 
the Consulate and marry Neveele in spite of Duarte. 
And then Judith quarreled with her husband and I was 
sent to the school-room with Ricardo. We had to pass 
[216] 


MARIA THERESA’S CONFESSION 

the head of the back-stairs and there I saw Neveele 
coming up. I sent Ricardo on ahead of me and went 
down to meet Neveele. We could not talk there, so I 
took him into the garden around the back of the house 
so that we could not be seen by anyone leaving by the 
front gate.” 

The girl paused for breath; she had been talking in 
2 i steady stream, pouring out her confession as the wa¬ 
ters rush forth when the barrier that held them pent 
up has been removed. I took the opportunity to ask 
a question. 

“Can you recall what time this was?” 

She shook her head. “I do not know what time it 
was, but as we stood at the bottom of the stairs I heard 
the door of the library close. I knew then that Duarte 
was still in the house and that is why I urged Neveele 
to talk to me in the garden. He upbraided me for not 
meeting him as I promised and I repeated what Duarte 
had said to me. It was all a lie, Helena. Duarte had 
sent no word and Neveele had been waiting at the gate 
for me all that time. He was afraid that something had 
happened to me. That is why he came to the house. 
Then he told me to get my bag and come with him but 
I—became frightened. All I could think of was the 
sound of Judith’s sobs. Supposing I should be unhappy 
too and that you and Duarte never forgave me?” She 
looked up pleadingly at her sister. “He begged and 

[ 217 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

pleaded but I would not go. Then he told me I was a 
coward and that I did not really love him—and he went 
away, oh, so angry. I had hardly reached the school¬ 
room when Judith screamed and when I learned that 
Duarte was dead I was very glad I had not run away.” 

She added vehemently: “Neveele did not kill Duarte. 
He was in the garden with me. That is why he won’t 
say where he was—because he loves me—and he’s a 
gentleman. Oh, Helena, do you think he will forgive 
me and come back to me again? I’ve been so unhappy. 
He has not been to see me since that dreadful night.” 

Sometimes the right thing happens at the psycho¬ 
logical moment, despite the opinion of critics to the 
contrary. She had hardly spoken the last word when 
we heard a step and St. John himself came into the 
room. At sight of him Maria Theresa jumped shame¬ 
lessly to her feet and buried her tear-bedewed cheeks 
within the circle of his arm. 

Dona Helena and I pretended to be very much in¬ 
terested in the view from the window. It was a fine 
view without doubt, a cobalt sky like the dome of some 
vast cathedral whose columns were the granite peaks 
rising in the distance and whose aisles were decorated 
with blossoms of all shapes and colors and filled with 
a congregation of houses in multicolored garments, but 
I cannot now recall what thoughts it induced. I was 
thinking rather with a certain complacency of Nita 
[ 218 ] 


MARIA THERESA’S CONFESSION 

Giovanni. She was the kind to follow the man she 
loved to the very bottomless pits of Hades if it were 
necessary. She would not have balked at a brother’s 
threats or cared if all the world had proved to her that 
only unhappiness lay before her. Then I heaved a 
sigh and turned to listen to what St. John was saying. 

“I came over because Mr. McKelvie called me up 
and told me that in my place he would not have given 
up so easily. I do not know how he guessed the truth 
since I told him nothing of myself-” 

“It wouldn’t be necessary,” I amended drily. “I 
verily believe that he could read the innermost cogita¬ 
tions of the Sphinx herself.” 

“As things stand now,” St. John smiled down upon 
the girl in his arms, “I feel as though I owe him an 
apology. I can speak freely of something which I 
dared not mention before for fear of dragging Maria 
Theresa’s name into the discussion. When I left the 
garden that night, I saw a man disappearing through 
the iron door in the back fence. I overtook him in the 
alley and recognized Fernandez, the gardener. I 
thought nothing of the circumstance at the time be¬ 
cause I assumed that he was probably going out to 
spend the evening at some tavern, but as I look back 
on the episode I recall that he looked at me furtively 
and pulled his hat over his face as though he did not 
want me to discover his identity.” 


[ 219 ] 



THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“The police are looking for him,” I returned. “He 
was dismissed by Ramalho during the afternoon of the 
murder.” 

“Then he was doing no good hanging around the 
place that night,” replied St. John. “He was an ugly 
customer, surly, ill-tempered. I wouldn’t be at all 
surprised if he had murdered Judith’s husband.” 

“He couldn’t have. What would he know of the 
ivory skull?” I demanded. 

“The ivory skull?” St. John’s tone was one of pro¬ 
found astonishment. I had forgotten that others were 
not so well acquainted with the details of the affair as 
I. I hinted that I had better enlighten him at some 
more propitious time when the ladies were not present 
to which he readily assented. Then seeing that he 
wished to consult Tom’s wife, I returned to the library 
and my neglected task. Here he joined me a half hour 
later and I gave him the story of the activities of the 
skull as I myself knew it so far. 

“If Mr. McKelvie thinks that Judith knows some¬ 
thing about the skull, he is vastly mistaken. She had 
never heard of Ramalho until we came to Brazil and 
she met him at a dance. What should she know of his 
past life?” countered St. John. 

“What made her marry him?” I inquired. 

“I cannot conceive. I have been asking myself the 
[ 220 ] 


MARIA THERESA’S CONFESSION 


same question for over five months. The tortuous and 
complicated logic of the feminine mind is beyond me/’ 
he returned. 

“She was not in love with him, then? Or perhaps, 
infatuated?” I demanded. 

“Judith is excitable but she is also fairly level-headed 
where men are concerned. Besides there was James 
Bentley. She may have thought that by announcing 
her engagement to Ramalho, Bentley would come to 
terms. Unfortunately in this world things do not al¬ 
ways work out as we would have them. Bentley re¬ 
mained away and there was nothing to do but carry 
out her promise to Ramalho. I may be entirely wrong, 
but that is the construction that I have always put upon 
the affair.” 

He rose and held out his hand. “Tell Mr. McKelvie 
that if I can serve him in any way, that I shall only be 
too glad to pay a small part of the debt I owe him.” 

He had no sooner gone than Cesario called me to 
the phone. For a moment I dallied with the pleasur¬ 
able thought that I might be about to hear the voice 
of the countess. My hello was answered by the curt 
tones of Graydon McKelvie. 

“Would you mind coming down to the precinct at 
once? We have the gardener but the Lord only knows 
what he is saying, or any of the rest of them for that 

[ 221 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

matter. Whatever it is, it is something vital. They 
are all very much excited, all except yours truly who 
not being able to understand what the fuss is about, is 
preserving an unbroken front.” 

I smiled at the picture that he drew. “Be with you 
in ten minutes,” I replied briefly and hung up. 


[ 222 ] 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE GARDENER 

In less time than it takes to tell I had routed out 
Tom’s chauffeur and had been driven at a swift pace 
to the precinct. When I entered I was met by Mc- 
Kelvie who was impatiently pacing the outer office while 
he awaited my advent. The police were nowhere to 
be seen. 

“I’ve managed to make out this much,” he greeted 
me. Opening his hand, he displayed Ramalho’s studs, 
rings, and watch. 

I stared at them in stupefied silence. “How on earth 
did the gardener get hold of those things,” I asked. “I 
thought you deduced that the murderer had taken the 
jewelry as a blind.” 

“I beg your pardon for contradicting you. That 
theory was put forward by the delegado, not by me,” 
he replied. 

“I thought you indorsed it.” 

“I did not deny it, neither did I subscribe to it. I 
merely held my peace since I was not yet sure of my 
ground. I am still not sure, for up to the present 

[ 223 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


moment we have found no evidence either to prove or 
disprove the statement.” 

“Then, you believe that the gardener killed Ra- 
malho?” I recalled St. John’s opinion and hastened to 
relate what he had told me. My tone expressed the 
fervent wish that we had reached the end of the case. 
I might have known that our troubles could not be over 
so soon. 

“St. John’s information would have been more valu¬ 
able if it had come somewhat earlier. However, we 
have the gardener, so that no time has been lost. These 
things were found on him when he was captured. He 
may have stolen them, or he may have acquired them 
in some other way; that is what I want you to find out. 
He did not kill Ramalho. He’s powerful enough, but 
he’s not left-handed.” 

“I thought Doctor Bentley had knocked that theory 
winding.” 

“I’m still undecided on that point. Come in and 
have a look at the fellow.” 

McKelvie led the way through the inner room and 
along a bare stone corridor toward a cell at the farther 
end, from which issued a series of strange and inexpli¬ 
cable sounds. For a moment I felt myself transported 
once more to the midst of the jungle where monkeys 
shrilled to one another across the tree-tops in answer 
to the jaguar’s roar of hunger echoing through the 
1224] 


THE GARDENER 


solemn stillness of the night. A few more steps brought 
me an explanation of this phenomenon. A double cell 
and in the first a number of police, gesticulating and 
chattering like excited apes at a figure in the farther 
inclosure, a figure, wild, disheveled, with blood-shot 
eyes, who howled and shook the bars in a frenzy of 
rage until I thought the iron must break in his huge, 
hairy paws. A shaft of sunlight slanting through the 
one window of the outer cell fell in level rays across a 
tray on which were spread coffee, rolls, and a plate of 
black beans. 

At a sharp exclamation from McKelvie the police 
turned toward us and I proceeded to inquire what the 
trouble was and why they had not given the gardener 
his luncheon. The sub -delegado, a debonair young 
chap who was in charge in the absence of his superior, 
replied that the idea had come to him to make the 
gardener speak by using the method described as 
the punishment employed by the Olympian gods in the 
case of Tantalus. 

“We had the devil’s own time in arresting him,” 
remarked the young official with a grimace. “He 
fought and bit like a wildcat.” 

“Give him his meal,” I returned. “The Senhor 
McKelvie orders it.” 

While the young man hesitated between obedience 
and his own desires like a person who has arrived at 

[ 225 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


a cross-roads and is undecided which path to follow, 
McKelvie picked up the tray and carried it into the 
inner cell, placing it upon the cot. The prisoner, aston¬ 
ished by this maneuver, had ceased to shake the bars 
and was looking suspiciously from the police to McKel¬ 
vie as if scenting some new and perhaps more diabolical 
trap; but when McKelvie had succeeded through pan¬ 
tomime in making him understand that he was free to 
appease his hunger, the poor fellow fell on his knees 
and caught McKelvie’s hand in his, placing it to 
his coarse lips and murmuring broken snatches of 
blessings. 

The Anglo-Saxon in contrast to the Latin has an 
instinctive and inbred horror of displaying emotion 
in public. McKelvie snatched away his hand and 
walked out of the cell with heightened color, the first 
time I had seen him lose his composure and that air of 
aloofness which left him untouched by passing events. 

The gardener looked after him with the dumb eyes 
of a dog whose glance follows a loved master; then he 
fell upon the food like a ravenous wolf and for several 
minutes thereafter nothing was heard but the crunching 
of teeth and an occasional protest from the svib-dele- 
gado, who remarked cynically that now all hope of 
learning the truth was at an end. But McKelvie was 
of a different opinion. He lighted his pipe and told me 
to obtain the details of the capture. 

[226] 


THE GARDENER 

“We put a detective on his trail this morning as soon 
as we knew that he was wanted,” explained the young 
official. “According to testimony gathered from eye¬ 
witnesses, the gardener spent the night of the murder 
at a tavern near the Morro de Castello. In a moment 
of hilarity, he displayed his loot, saying he intended 
selling the diamonds in another town. One of the men 
present cast avaricious eyes upon the jewels and fool¬ 
ishly tried to rob the gardener when he thought the 
latter was in a drunken sleep. But the gardener, as 
you can see for yourself, is a powerful brute and even 
raw spirits could not deaden his senses entirely. 
Knives glittered and the other fellow was killed. You 
know what these tavern brawls are, Senhor,” with an 
indifferent shrug. “The gardener was wounded in the 
leg and was forced to remain in hiding as much from 
the police as from the dead man’s brother who, believ¬ 
ing in the Mosaic law implicitly, declared a blood-feud. 
The gardener dared not come forth for fear of being 
killed and so had no way of procuring food, as this man 
had got on his trail and was hanging around waiting 
for his chance to avenge his brother. With this man 
our detective had a talk and so we were enabled to 
secure the gardener on rather short notice. As I say, 
we had to knock him senseless to arrest him, and while 
he was incapable of further damage we took the oppor¬ 
tunity to search him. How he came by the diamonds 

[ 227 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


I do not know, as he has refused absolutely to say one 
word concerning them.” 

By this time the gardener had consumed the food 
upon the tray, and was sitting expectantly watchful for 
the next move on our part. It was my turn to step 
into the breach, and I did so by asking the gardener 
for an account of his movements from the moment 
when Ramalho dismissed him to that in which he 
arrived at the tavern. 

At first I could not understand the mumbled answer, 
for the man spoke a language all his own and I was not 
familiar with the patois of the street. Gradually I 
managed to make out, with the assistance of one of 
the police, that the gardener refused to tell his story 
to anyone but McKelvie. This put us in a quandary 
out of which McKelvie himself extricated us. He 
ordered the police to leave the cell and wait outside, 
and then he showed the gardener that I was his friend 
by patting me heartily on the back, a suggestion which 
the man was quick to understand, especially as I fol¬ 
lowed it up with the gift of a few milreis. 

I shall not attempt to reproduce the story that he 
told us in his own words, for such a task would be well- 
nigh impossible and would result in a version so con¬ 
fused that only a person familiar with the Portuguese 
language could make head or tail of the ensuing 
narrative. 

[228] 


THE GARDENER 


When Ramalho had dismissed the gardener, the 
latter, considering the act unjust, determined to revenge 
himself on his erstwhile employer. He did not harbor 
the thought of murder but rather that of robbery, 
since the latter crime would prove not only less dan¬ 
gerous but also more lucrative. As the butler had told 
us, the gardener had packed his belongings and left 
the place, but at night he had returned to carry out 
his plan. He knew that the library was left open 
and that he could easily gain access to the house 
through that room. The family would be in the draw¬ 
ing-room as was their custom and he would have the 
house practically to himself. 

When he reached the library he found it in dark¬ 
ness. He stepped in through the window and was 
cautiously making his way toward the door when he 
stumbled over an object in his path, an object which 
felt soft and warm to his touch as he endeavored to 
regain his feet. Frightened, he struck a match and in 
its momentary flare he saw that he had fallen over the 
body of a man, the lifeless body of Duarte Ramalho. 
With a stifled cry of horror the gardener groped his 
way back to the window and was about to flee the place 
when before his mind’s eye he saw again the sparkle 
of the diamonds in Ramalho’s shirt-front. He had 
come to rob the living, why should he hesitate to rob 
the dead. One was a crime, the other a mortal sin. 

[229] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


On the threshold of the window he stood, superstition 
urging him to give wings to his feet and leave that 
accursed spot; avarice whispering what a find was here 
with no one to know that it was he who had taken the 
diamonds. In the end greed won out. The gardener 
returned to the body, which was lying on its back, but 
in order to secure the booty he must have light. Seeing 
that the door was closed, he ventured to turn on the 
lamp upon the table and by its rays he carried out his 
gruesome task. Then, cupidity being satisfied, fear 
took possession of his soul. Suppose the body were 
found immediately and he were accused. They would 
send him up for life, for a deed for which he was not 
responsible. It was at this precise moment that his eye 
fell upon the urn which stood uncovered in its place 
behind the door. He did not stop to reason out the 
idea that came to him as a cleverer man might have 
done, weighing the pros and cons. He simply saw a 
means of preventing discovery until he himself was 
safe in another town beyond the reach of the police, 
and he picked up the body and carrying it to the urn, 
dropped it in, and clapped the lid on. 

Pleased with his success, like a child that has accom¬ 
plished some difficult task and must perforce boast of 
his prowess, the gardener extinguished the light, and 
leaving the garden by the alley, took himself to the 
tavern to drink to his own performance and to display 
1230] 


THE GARDENER 

to the others his ingenuity in turning someone else’s 
crime to his own account In the alley he had received 
a severe fright, for he had been followed by Neville 
St. John. As the latter did not accost him, however, 
the gardener came to the conclusion that he had not 
been recognized and so he dismissed the young 
American from his mind. 

That in substance was the story which I obtained 
and which I retailed to McKelvie in the outer office 
after we had turned the gardener over to the police 
again that justice might take its course, since the man 
had broken the law and so deserved whatever punish¬ 
ment was his due. When McKelvie had heard the 
entire account, he broke out into self-contemptuous 
abuse. 

“What a dullard I have been! ” he exclaimed. “That’s 
what comes of thinking that I know it all. I might have 
known that there had been two persons in that room 
that night.” 

“I don’t see how you could have,” I returned. “The 
gardener left no trace of his presence. Don’t chide 
yourself for something that you could not have fore¬ 
seen.” 

“That is just it. I should have foreseen it. When 
you remarked that X should be easy to find since he 
had left so many clues to his personality, I answered 
that the fact was troubling me, that there were too 

1231 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


many clues. I should have followed up that lead. 
I should have distrusted the ease with which I discov¬ 
ered traces of X’s presence. What did I do instead? 
I went around looking for a left-handed, Russian- 
cigarette smoking, powerful man,” he replied in dis¬ 
gust. “I might have known that the avenger would 
have no object in hiding the body or taking the 
diamonds.” 

“I think you are unjust to yourself. Did you not 
order the arrest of the gardener? You must have sus¬ 
pected him of connection with the case.” 

“That was a chance shot. I thought the avenger 
might have had an accomplice, that perhaps the gar¬ 
dener had had himself dismissed on purpose. It is 
good of you to try to defend me, but I can’t hide behind 
pure fool’s luck.” 

He paced up and down a while with frowning brows, 
then he swung abruptly toward me. 

“We’ll have to work fast now. I’m going to learn 
the truth from Bentley about that dagger. Will you 
be kind enough to go home and tell Judith that I am 
going to bring Bentley over for a joint conference?” 

His words opened up a vista of intolerable thoughts. 
If the gardener hid the body, anyone at all might have 
killed Ramalho. Did McKelvie begin to suspect Judith 
after all, now that his previous chain of reasoning had 
snapped asunder? He claimed that she had been look- 

12321 


THE GARDENER 


ing for the skull, and fright at finding the body, which 
she had left on the floor, stuffed into the urn might 
have caused her cry. 

“Surely,” I questioned, “you can’t have changed 
your mind about Judith’s innocence?” 

He lifted his eyes to meet mine, but his glance was 
noncommittal. “Iam making no more rash deductions. 
When we have heard the truth from Judith and Bent¬ 
ley, I will tell you what I think. In the meantime you 
can drive me to Gomez’s house and go ahead yourself 
to prepare the girl.” 


12331 


CHAPTER XX 


A NEW VERSION 

After leaving McKelvie at Gomez’s house, I re¬ 
turned homeward unwillingly, for I was not overkeen 
concerning the coming interview. I could not see what 
McKelvie expected to gain by hurling Doctor Bentley 
at Judith’s head, metaphorically speaking. She was 
still in mourning for her husband; it would have been 
more tactful to have permitted time and their own 
hearts to bring these two young people together again. 
Strange that a man of McKelvie’s fine sensibilities 
should have been so lacking in judgment in an affair 
of this sort. But I suppose the cynical attitude which 
he adopted toward all matters pertaining to love was 
partly to blame; that and the fact that he was actuated 
by the desire to clear up the mystery as soon as 
possible. 

To my surprise Judith made no objection to meeting 
Doctor Bentley, rather did she seem glad that the 
opportunity was to be hers, and as we sat in the library 
awaiting the doctor’s arrival I looked at her again with 

1234 ] 


A NEW VERSION 


the eyes of a man whose interest in womankind had 
increased with the passing hours. She was wearing 
black in deference to custom, and her face was thin, 
but otherwise she seemed to have recovered from her 
loss with amazing rapidity; or perhaps it was the 
thought of Bentley that brought that wild-rose pink to 
dye her cheeks, that gave an added sparkle to her eyes, 
an upward quirk to the corners of her mouth. 

When we heard the sound of steps upon the walk 
outside, Judith had her first misgivings, and she rose 
in confusion, exclaiming, “No, no, I cannot see him, 
indeed I can’t.” 

“You will not have to, Madame,” responded McKel- 
vie, walking coolly through the open window. “Doctor 
Bentley is otherwise engaged at present. Under the 
circumstances I thought you might be just as well 
pleased to relate your story before you meet him. I 
should prefer it so, at any rate.” 

“You meant every word of what you told me over 
the phone, Mr. McKelvie?” she asked, with anxiety 
apparent in the glance she gave him. 

“Every word of it. Doctor Bentley is under the 
mistaken impression that by keeping silent he is shield¬ 
ing you. Therefore he cannot be guilty of your hus¬ 
band’s murder,” replied McKelvie, thereby supplying 
me with the clue to Judith’s complacency. “I beg your 
pardon for double-crossing you, Professor,” he added, 

[ 2 3S ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“but after you had driven away I remembered that 
I had forgotten to give you the message for the Senhora, 
the open sesame to the secret she has been guarding 
these many days.” 

Judith returned to her chair. “I don’t understand 
why Jimmy should think me guilty,” she said, puzzled 
and hurt too, to judge by her tone. 

McKelvie smiled quizzically. “My dear young lady, 
those who live in glass houses should never throw 
stones. Were you not suspecting him?” 

“But he had the dagger, Mr. McKelvie,” she retorted 
with spirit, “so how could he possibly imagine that I 
could have wielded it?” 

“We will clear up that point when we talk to the 
doctor. In the meanwhile I should like the truth con¬ 
cerning the events of that day and night in which you 
directly participated,” answered McKelvie, perching 
himself on the edge of the table. 

“I shall have to begin further back than that, but 
I will try to make it brief,” remarked Judith in her 
soft, drawling voice. “James Bentley and I grew up 
in the same town, fell in love with each other, and 
became engaged just before he left for New York to 
enter Columbia. He had taken his medical degree in 
the South, but he wanted to become a surgeon, and 
while he was in New York he made a good many friends 
and lived the usual gay life of a young man of means 
[236] 


A NEW VERSION 

in a big city. I thought nothing of the matter until a 
girl friend went to New York for the winter. When 
she returned she told me of things which she claimed 
to have seen and heard about but which I know now 
were false, things which caused me to break with Doc¬ 
tor Bentley. Then we came to Brazil, and because my 
heart was dead within me and it seemed to me that 
nothing really mattered I accepted Duarte Ramalho’s 
attentions and married him.” 

How erroneous her brother’s conclusions had been 
and how easy it is to build soaring structures upon false 
foundations, which should teach us, though few of us 
profit by the precept, that one should not judge another 
without first putting oneself in that other’s place. 

“I thought my marriage would help me to forget 
Jimmy,” Judith went on, more bitterly. “I was a fool. 
I hated Duarte from the moment he became my hus¬ 
band, and every act of his only served to show me how 
much happier I should have been had I married Jimmy 
even though I believed ill of him.” 

She added presently: “I had been married three 
months when the same girl friend wrote to say that 
she had lied to me about Jimmy. She had thought 
herself in love with him and had taken that means of 
getting me to break the engagement, hoping that Jimmy 
would turn to her. For months she had sought to win 
him and then, the irony of it, she met another man 

[ 237 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


with whom she fell in love on sight and whom she 
married. She was writing to make amends. Make 
amends,” Judith repeated, with falling accent. a She 
had ruined my life, for only Duarte’s death could sever 
the tie that bound us. 

“Then Jimmy hurt his hand, and because I was here 
and the girl in her contrition had confessed to him the 
truth, he came to Brazil and sought me out. But I 
refused to see him. I was breaking my heart as 
it was,” she explained pathetically for her seeming 
hardness. 

“But Jimmy was obstinate and he secured a position 
with Gomez. He made no attempt to see me, but he 
let me know that he was close by. The day of the 
murder he broke his self-imposed rule. He had seen 
Duarte in Dolores Castro’s company several times and 
the night before the murder he had heard enough talk 
at the Club to guess at the truth. The next afternoon 
he came to me in the arbor where I was reading. I had 
just gotten rid of Neville, who had intrusted me with 
a note and some directions for Maria Theresa. Jimmy’s 
unexpected appearance startled me and I dropped my 
book. The dagger which I use as a marker slid out of 
the pages, but he did not notice it in recovering the 
book for me.” 

“And it remained in the arbor?” queried McKelvie. 

“No, I only wish it had,” she answered fervently. 
[238] 


A NEW VERSION 


“We talked. He threatened my husband and begged 
me to secure a divorce. I tried to show him how im¬ 
possible such a course would be, and when he refused 
to listen to reason I got up and left him. When I 
reached the bend in the path I looked back at him. 
He was standing near the entrance to the arbor holding 
in his hand my dagger and looking at it in a strange 
and sinister way. My first impulse was to hurry 
back and take the knife from him; my second was 
to tell myself indignantly that James Bentley was 
incapable of murder. I went on to the house and 
upstairs to my room.” 

When she had ended her narrative she glanced up 
at McKelvie. “Do you understand now why I thought 
he had killed my husband?” she asked. “He had the 
dagger and he had threatened Duarte. Since his acci¬ 
dent, Jimmy has been forced to use his left hand and 
he’s strong enough to have put the body in the urn. 
Do you wonder I was frantic the day you questioned 
me in the garden?” 

“And he smoked Russian cigarettes,” added McKel¬ 
vie with a glance at me. “A very promising suspect 
he made, all the evidence pointed toward him with the 
exception of the skull. I could not make that jibe 
somehow. What made you connect him with the ivory 
skull, Madame?” 

She looked at him in undisguised admiration. “I 

1239] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


don’t see how you have learned all these details so 
accurately. How do you know anything of this skull?” 

“That is too long a story to go into now. I do know 
that you were looking for it in the urn that night. Will 
you not give us the rest of the tale?” 

She smiled tremulously. “I’m almost afraid not to, 
for fear that you will learn it in spite of me. When 
dinner was over that night, Duarte asked me to go with 
him to our room as he had something of importance to 
tell me. Wondering what was coming, I obeyed him. 
Then he told me a strange, wild tale, saying that 
through his mother he had inherited the vengeance of 
the skull, that it was on his track and that his only 
safety lay in flight. I did not believe him. I thought 
he was trumping up a story to throw me over entirely 
for Dolores. Then he swore that he was not lying to 
me, and that if I wanted proof I would find it in the 
bottom of the urn where he had flung the accursed 
skull. I thought him mad. I let him go. Gradually, 
however, I recalled that he had had a faint, distended 
tattoo of a skull on his arm which he had afterwards 
destroyed. I decided for my own peace of mind to put 
to the test the truth of his tale. I slipped down to the 
library, lifted the lid of the urn and found—” She 
shuddered at the memory as her voice died away into 
a whisper. “When I saw Duarte, I lost my sense of 
balance. I cried out in terror and fled. Later I heard 
[ 240] 


A NEW VERSION 

talk about the skull and how it had vanished from the 
urn. I believed because of the dagger that Jimmy was 
to blame and I was afraid he had taken the skull, that 
in some inexplicable way he was connected with the 
vengeance that Duarte feared. That is why I lied to 
you,” she ended, appealingly. “I wanted to save him 
and I knew no other way.” 

“The way of a woman in love, but not a clever way 
for all that. It made me suspect Bentley where before 
I had not taken him into account. It also gave the 
police a new outlook on the problem confronting them.” 

“The police?” she repeated in terror. 

McKelvie spoke reassuringly. “There is nothing to 
be alarmed about. I’ll come to that point later. What 
happened during the interview between yourself and 
Bentley just before I talked to you in the garden? 
You did not accuse him, surely?” 

“He sent me a note begging me to see him. I found 
him in the arbor, where he had been waiting and 
smoking furiously. When I arrived he said that he 
came to tell me that he would always be waiting for 
me no matter what I had done. I did not understand 
him. Then he kissed my hand and hurried away.” 

McKelvie waxed sarcastic. “Just the sort of idiotic 
fool thing a man like Bentley would do, just the sort 
of thing he has done in fact.” He turned to me. 
“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish. Ten minutes before I 

£241 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

reached Doctor Gomez’s place, the delegado, who has 
been working on his own ideas, put Doctor Bentley 
under arrest, and Bentley handed himself over with 
the brilliant comment that he alone was guilty.’’ 
McKelvie was thoroughly disgusted. “I suppose he’d 
be pleased to see himself condemned.” 

Judith cried out at that with blanched face. “And 
you have let me sit here and waste time telling you 
my story when Jimmy is locked in a cell and may be 
sentenced at any moment,” she accused him indig¬ 
nantly. “Have you no heart?” 

“Gently, Madame. I could hardly secure his release 
until I had sufficient evidence to prove to him that in 
remaining silent he was acting like a fool. Now I can 
assure him that his fears for your safety are ground¬ 
less. That may induce him to tell us the truth in his 
turn.” 

She clasped her hands and stood before him like a 
suppliant. “Forgive me. I—do you suppose—would 
he think me overbold if I went with you?” she asked 
timidly. 

“On the contrary. I think he deserves some com¬ 
pensation at your hands,” he retorted somewhat sternly. 
“If you will get your bonnet-” 

A bright spot of color appeared in either cheek and 
her eyes blazed, but she made no answer except to leave 
the room with a haughty step and head flung back. 

[ 242 ] 



A NEW VERSION 

I raised my eyes questioningly to his and he laughed 
lightly. “Like most of her sex, she does not like to 
hear the unvarnished truth about herself,” he said 
satirically. 

“She has suffered, too,” I pointed out. 

“She deserved to suffer. To judge a man and con¬ 
demn him without a hearing merely upon circumstan¬ 
tial evidence—even the most hardened criminal is not 
sentenced without a fair trial,” he retorted. 

“Her pride was hurt.” 

“Pride!” He laughed jarringly. “Her pride was 
hurt and so she broke with him. And his pride forbade 
his stooping to explain. Quelle comedie!” He threw 
up his hands in disgust. “Man is a queer animal, Pro¬ 
fessor. I sometimes wonder why the Lord bothered to 
make him at all.” 

Judith’s advent put an end to this philosophical dis¬ 
cussion and we drove for the third time to the precinct. 
The delegado sensed at once why we had come and 
ordered Doctor Bentley brought into the room. He 
came with his mournful countenance radiant and his 
restless eyes bright with the light of self-sacrifice. 
When he beheld Judith, he halted in his stride and 
waved her sharply away. 

“Judith!” he cried. “You do not belong here.” He 
swung toward the delegado with outstretched hands. 
“Let her go. It is all a mistake. I alone am to blame.” 

[ 243 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


Before the delegado could reply, Judith had flung 
herself on her knees before the doctor. 

“Jimmy?” she said, brokenly, “Jimmy, I am not in 
any danger. I have come to release you. You could 
do this for me—after the way I treated you.” 

Gently he raised her. “I would die for you, Judith,” 
he answered, simply. 

It was McKelvie, the scoffer, who suggested that we 
step outside and view the scenery, although there was 
nothing of interest to see along the narrow street except 
a vender of fowls who led his patient donkey by the 
bridle while he called his wares in a raucous voice which 
soared unmusically above the squawking of the hens 
imprisoned in the narrow paniers which had been slung 
across the mule’s back. Ten minutes we allowed the 
lovers, then we reentered the delegado's office. They 
had made their peace with one another and were sitting 
together on a wooden bench, not in the least self- 
conscious, since Judith allowed her bright head to 
remain pillowed against his shoulder as we drew up 
chairs to hear the doctor’s side of the affair. 

“It must appear strange to you that, loving Judith 
as I do, I should still be willing to believe her guilty of 
such a crime. This is the excuse I offer in extenuation. 
To my mind the deed was not a criminal act but one 
of retribution. I had had the impulse when I stood 
with the dagger in my hand to do what I assumed 

[244] 


A NEW VERSION 


Judith had been compelled to do to avenge her honor.” 

“But, Jimmy, you had the dagger,” broke in Judith, 
in perplexity. 

“No, I put it on the table.” 

“Doctor Bentley,” interrupted McKelvie, “I should 
like to make a suggestion. We will make more prog¬ 
ress and have a clearer notion of the part you played 
if you will start at the beginning, that is with your 
actions on the day of the murder itself.” 

^ The doctor nodded. “When Judith refused to see 
me I naturally came to the conclusion that she was 
happily married and would rather not be reminded of 
other days. It was not a charitable thought, but I had 
only her actions to guide me in forming my decision. 
When I heard from various sources of the neglect to 
which she was subjected, my indignation got the better 
of my discretion and I called on Judith.” 

“We are somewhat pressed for time, and as Madame 
has told us what occurred in the arbor, I would be 
obliged if you would recommence your story at the 
point where she left you alone,” interposed McKelvie. 

“As you wish, sir,” assented Bentley, readily. “As 
I walked across the arbor to leave the place, I trod upon 
an object which I picked up. It was Judith’s dagger. 
At first I was going to call to her and return it; then 
the thought obtruded itself that chance had placed the 
weapon in my hands to free her from her bondage. Such 

[ 245 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


an action would necessarily mean the loss of her regard, 
but as I believed myself to have already lost her love, 
it mattered little to me what I did or what I became as 
long as I might serve her. I had reached the front 
gate when another idea reared its head to confront 
me. Supposing Judith loved her husband, blackguard 
though he was, and that my deed should leave her free 
but desolate. He might be unfaithful, but while she 
cared for him he was safe from me. I retraced my 
steps to the house. The library window was open and 
the room empty. I stepped in and laid the dagger 
on the table.” 

I looked across significantly at McKelvie. I had 
been right in asserting that the dagger was on the table 
late that afternoon. I saw a look of incredulity leap 
into those sharp eyes, veiled instantly as he noted that 
I was watching him. Then he turned again to listen to 
Bentley. 

“That night Doctor Gomez was called to the house. 
He returned to tell me that Duarte Ramalho had been 
murdered. I could not sleep. I walked the streets in 
an agony of suspense, waiting for morning and the 
details. I heard that the weapon used was Judith’s 
dagger and that the blow was struck by a left-handed 
person. I saw Penna, but he told me nothing of the 
urn and the skull. Perhaps he had been ordered not 
to talk since Judith says that Mr. Clinton used his 
[246] 


A NEW VERSION 

influence to have the details suppressed. When you 
called on me last night and told me that all the evidence 
pointed to Judith, I thought the police were on her trail 
and so I sent them word that I was the man they 
wanted.” 

He spoke unaffectedly of his intention to shield 
Judith at all costs, but he did not impress McKelvie 
particularly, for that young man was of a purely logical 
turn of mind and could find no excuse for quixotic 
actions, however well meant. 

“You would have served her better, in my opinion, 
Doctor, if you had gone to her frankly and told her 
what you intended to do. You would then have arrived 
at the truth of the affair and saved yourselves days of 
unhappiness.” 

I thought Bentley was going to take offense, but 
McKelvie’s smile was disarming, and so the doctor 
contented himself with prophecy. “Some day you are 
going to fall in love, and when that happens, sir, you 
will do many things that in a saner moment you could 
not believe yourself capable of.” 

“Without doubt,” McKelvie agreed promptly, “and 
so I shall have a care and avoid the disease. Then 
you were not in earnest when you claimed that the blow 
might have been struck by a right-handed person?” 

“I did not see the body myself, but from Penna’s 
description the blow was too powerful a one to have 

[ 247 j 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


been struck from the side, as you yourself suggested 
last night. I was merely trying to evolve an alibi that 
would hold water in case of trouble, but when you 
seemed unconvinced I came to the conclusion that my 
ruse had failed,” responded the doctor. 

McKelvie turned to me. “Will you ride home with 
me on the cars, Professor, and let the doctor have the 
machine? There are some points I want to discuss 
with you.” 

I was delighted to comply, for I realized that Bentley 
desired to be alone with the girl, and so we left them 
there to return home at their own convenience. 

“Have you heard from Paris?” I inquired as we 
boarded a street car. 

“I couldn’t possibly get an answer before to-morrow 
morning,” he returned. “Did you go into the library 
piter dinner by any chance?” 

“No. I went right upstairs.” 

“I should very much like to have known whether the 
dagger was still on the table. It would simplify matters 
considerably.” 

“Now that we have eliminated everybody from the 
case, we have nothing left to go on, not even a clue of 
any sort,” I remarked presently. 

“We can still hunt for X, with his penchant for 
Russian cigarettes and his habit of using his left hand 
instead of his right,” replied McKelvie quietly. 

1248] 


A NEW VERSION 


“Two hours ago you torn me you were entirely in the 
wrong in assuming that those qualities belonged to X,” 
I protested. 

“Because the second story is weak and caves in, is 
no reason for pulling up the foundations of a building,” 
he returned caustically. “I was wrong in supposing 
that X had to be strong enough to carry the body. I 
still maintain that the cigarette we found near the 
house was left there by him.” 

“And the one in the arbor?” 

“That was Doctor Bentley’s, one of those coinci¬ 
dences that often occur in life. Don’t forget that you 
have an appointment with me to-night. Eight-thirty 
will be time enough to meet me.” 


[249] 


CHAPTER XXI 


AT THE PALACIO 

At eight-thirty, according to agreement, I presented 
myself at the door of the Palacio to find McKelvie 
awaiting me. Outside the theater a steady stream of 
private cars and taxis bore witness to the popularity 
of the Senhorita Dolores Castro. Already the place 
was crowded and we found no little difficulty in making 
our way through the marble lobby and up the flight of 
marble steps, with their black onyx balustrades, to a 
box on the right of the house. The orchestra was 
engaged in tuning up, and to the accompaniment of the 
shrill squeaks of violins answered by a rumble from 
the bass drum or a hoarse croak from a trombone, the 
preliminary clearing, as it were, of instrumental throats, 
McKelvie scanned the theater through his opera glasses. 
Then he called my attention to the opposite box. 

I took up the glasses and trained them on the occu¬ 
pants of the box in question. In a low-cut dress of 
silver cloth, which set off to advantage the beautiful 
arms and shoulders and enhanced the blackness of her 
hair, the Contessa di Sforza was animatedly engaged 

[ 250 ] 


AT THE PALACIO 


in entertaining a gentleman who sat behind her and 
whose features I could not distinguish. Beside his 
wife, but not in the least diverted by her talk, was 
Parrish, looking as gloomy as though the rising curtain 
were about to depict the tragedy of the universe instead 
of the graceful art of one of the best dancers in Brazil. 

“Who is the man behind her?” I questioned. 

McKelvie retrieved the glasses. “There is some¬ 
thing familiar about him,” responded my companion 
with a pleased smile on his lips which set me to wonder¬ 
ing if it were not the countess he was looking at so 
steadfastly. “If she would only move a little. Ah, that 
is better. I can see his face quite clearly now.” 

“Who is it?” I demanded impatiently. 

McKelvie laid down the glasses with a speculative 
look in his eyes. “So, that is odd,” he murmured to 
himself. “Can it be that my first idea was the correct 
one after all?” 

My demand to know his meaning was swept aside in 
the stir created by the rising of the curtain on a stage 
of purple and gold hangings fantastically decorated 
with scrolls and figures whose import it was impossible 
to learn. In the very center of the stage stood a figure 
draped in black poised immovably against that back¬ 
ground like a statue carved from ebony. Then as the 
music began its weird and solemn chant, the figure 
rose to its full height and unfolding its arms revealed 

1251 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


Dolores Castro decked out in gorgeous raiment, a 
shimmering gown of rose and gold to represent a frivo¬ 
lous, gay, and pleasure-loving butterfly. Slowly she 
began her rhythmic dance while the music pulsed and 
throbbed with the joy of life, growing ever stronger 
and more ecstatic as the dancer whipped herself into 
a very frenzy of delight, whirling like a dervish with 
streaming hair and laughing eyes, with more and more 
abandon until it seemed she must have reached the 
pinnacle of all earthly desires. And now softly, sadly 
the notes of the violins wailed throughout the darkened 
hall, foreshadowing the doom of all mortal pleasures 
until broken and beaten on the wheel of life the dancer 
faltered in her steps and with one final whirl dropped 
upon the boards to rise no more. 

Lights were turned on and the audience, composed 
mostly of men, fairly went wild, clapping and cheering 
enthusiastically. To me the whole thing was horrible, 
the mad delirium of a composer’s brain, and I was glad 
when McKelvie suggested that we slip around to the 
wings and interview the dancer before her next appear¬ 
ance on the stage. We need not have hurried, since she 
was holding court for her admirers, and it was not until 
twenty minutes later that Diago’s card proved of suffi¬ 
cient potency to admit us to her dressing-room, from 
which she had succeeded in banishing even the most 
ardent of her adorers. 

[ 252 ] 


AT THE PALACIO 


She was seated before a mirror in a garish kimono 
of red and black, with her raven hair still hanging loose 
about her face. Her eyes were black, smoldering, and 
her mouth, overrouged, a cruel scarlet gash against a 
skin whose color might be described as a pale brown. 
Seen thus close at hand under the merciless light of the 
one lamp, her beauty was but a tawdry mask, a daring 
and cheap imitation of the refined loveliness of the 
beautiful countess. 

I had no use for the dancer, but as the responsibility 
for securing information devolved upon me, I opened 
the dialogue by paying her those compliments which 
are the very breath of life to the members of her pro¬ 
fession. She rewarded me with a feline smile that 
revealed a flash of white teeth, then she bent to the 
mirror and began skillfully to shade the corners of her 
eyes. She might have been alone on a desert island 
for all the embarrassment that our presence caused her. 
I was doubtless blushing for the three of us, since 
McKelvie, too, seemed quite at his ease as he watched 
Dolores Castro with the same intentness that a cat will 
watch a mouse. 

“The Senhor did not come here solely to pay me 
compliments,” remarked the dancer after a slight 
pause. “What is it that you—or rather Diago—wishes 
to know?” 


[ 253 1 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

I laid aside pretense and got down to business, thank¬ 
ful for the common-sense view she had adopted. 

“You were acquainted with Duarte Ramalho, were 
you not?” I asked, somewhat timidly. 

She laughed, but it was not a pleasant laugh to hear. 
“Acquainted! I think I was just a bit more than 
acquainted with him.” She turned a pair of blazing 
eyes upon me, her mouth distorted as she exclaimed, 
passionately, “He was mine, all mine, until that crea¬ 
ture stole him from me!” 

“I beg your pardon.” McKelvie’s cool voice was 
like a bank of snow applied to a smoldering pile. 
“Ask her if she speaks any other language besides 
Portuguese, Professor. I think I had better handle 
the conversation myself.” 

I was only too happy to abdicate. I put his question 
to the woman before us. With a flashing smile she 
assured him that she could “speak Englis a leetle bit” 
and French quite well. “I dance in Paris much time,” 
she added in English. McKelvie elected to use French, 
wisely deciding that pigeon English might be as difficult 
to understand as her own native tongue. 

“My interest in Ramalho, Madame, lies only in one 
direction,” he began. “Men often confide in the women 
with whom they are in love. Did he ever tell you any¬ 
thing of his family, what race he sprang from on his 
mothers side?” 

[ 254] 


AT THE PALACIO 


Dolores Castro laid down her hand-glass and faced 
McKelvie. “Why do you wish to know, Monsieur?” 
she asked quickly, suspicion leaping into her eyes. 

“In order to clear up the mystery of his death,” 
responded McKelvie gravely. “I believe that the skull 
is at the bottom of the affair.” 

“He swore me to secrecy, but why should I care for 
a promise made to one who never kept his word?” she 
asked bitterly. “He swore to be true to me, and one 
smile from her lips and he was false to his oath.” She 
beat her breast with her clenched hands. “I, Dolores 
Castro, scorned, cast aside like an old shoe, for that 
woman! If I had had a knife in my hand I should have 
killed her—and him, too. Mon Dieu, that I should 
have sat by tamely and let him get away! ” She turned 
her hate-filled countenance toward the mirror and at 
sight of her reflection she hid her face in her hands and 
rocked back and forth to the accompaniment of a 
cascade of wild laughter. 

We remained in mute silence until with an effort she 
recovered her self-possession. “I should not rave,” 
she said passively. “I will spoil my looks. I will tell 
you anything that you wish to know.” 

“I should like you to tell me as connectedly as pos¬ 
sible just what he told you concerning the ivory skull 
and his fears in regard to it,” suggested McKelvie. 

“It was the third of July that he met me at the 

[ 255 1 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


theater and took me to my hotel directly the show was 
over because, he said, he had something of importance 
to tell me, something that might affect me as well. 
Before he would utter a word he swore me to secrecy. 
I was on pins and needles. Mon Dieu, I thought he 
was going to say that he was tired of me! ” 

She laughed mirthlessly and resumed her story in a 
toneless voice. “It’s a strange story that he told me, 
Monsieur. I do not vouch for the truth of it. I did 
not believe him when he related it to me, but he was 
in such mortal terror that I listened to set his mind at 
ease. First he showed me a photograph which he swore 
to me was his mother’s picture. She was young and 
very beautiful. Then he gave me a letter to read. 
When he was engaged in pouring himself a cordial, I 
stole that letter.” 

She gave us a defiant glance as she added: “I wanted 
something to hold over him in case he was lying to me. 
I did not trust him and I was jealous of that pictured 
face.” She turned back to her dressing-table and un¬ 
locking her jewel-case, extracted from the bottom a 
sheet of note-paper which she handed to McKelvie. 

“That will tell you better than I can the story he 
regaled me with,” she said, resuming her interrupted 
toilette. 

McKelvie and I bent over the letter. It was written 
in French in a flowing hand and contained the following 
[256] 


AT THE PALACIO 


confirmation of my companion’s deductions concerning 
the relationship between Garcia and Ramalho: 

“Duarte: 

“Thirty-eight years ago Nita Carini, an Italian girl 
of high birth, married a Brazilian, Manoel Ramalho. 
It is enough for my purpose if I say that of that mar¬ 
riage I was the eldest and you the youngest son. I am 
inclosing a photograph of our mother and sufficient 
evidence in the shape of a copy of the marriage cer¬ 
tificate and of your and my birth records to prove to 
you the truth of my asseverations.” 

McKelvie interrupted the reading to ask whether the 
dancer had seen these last, but she declared she knew 
nothing of them. 

“A happy union that marriage would have been but 
for one thing. My mother came of a race accursed, 
came of a people who live in dread of the power of the 
ivory skull. What this skull is or why they should 
fear it, I do not know. Sufficient that such is the case. 
My mother feared its vengeance, and when she found 
that her sons were born marked she feared for their 
souls as well. Mother love proved stronger than her 
love for her husband, and so she schemed until she had 
devised a means for cheating vengeance. She was 

[257] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


afraid to destroy the marks on our arms, so she evolved 
the scheme which she carried out. She turned you over 
to our father that he might not be deprived of both 
wife and children and then she disappeared with me. 
Shortly after, she died and I was sent to an orphanage, 
from which I ran away and went to sea. Years later 
when I had made my fortune I went back to the 
orphanage and the sister gave me a packet which she 
said had been found upon my person when I was first 
brought to the institution. It was sealed and addressed 
to me in my mother’s hand with the injunction that it 
was not to be opened until I was twenty-one. From it 
I gleaned the narrative which I have set down here for 
your benefit. 

“Your father married again after my mother’s death, 
but as he had not changed his name it was easy enough 
to trace you. However, there is no need to revive old 
memories nor indeed to make your life a hell on earth 
as mine has been since learning the truth. When I can 
prove that the skull is actively at work will be time 
enough to warn you, and so I am making arrangements 
to that effect with your lawyer. 

“When you receive this letter, you may rest assured 
that I shall be dead and that vengeance shall have 
begun its fell work. Destroy the mark upon your arm, 
since that is the sign by which the avenger shall know 
you, change your name and hide your identity from 
[258] 


AT THE PALACIO 


the world. Only so can you hope to escape the ivory 
skull. When the first warning of your impending fate 
reaches you it will be too late. You may fly to the 
uttermost parts of the earth, but he will find you out. 
Death alone can cheat him, for it is the soul he would 
damn for all eternity. 

“Therefore take heed and follow this advice. 

“Benjamin Garcia Ramalho.” 

McKelvie’s eyes were shining as he folded up the 
letter. “I may keep this for a while?” he inquired. 

“Forever if you want it. It is no good to me now,” 
returned Dolores Castro indifferently. 

“What advice did you give him? That I presume 
was his idea in confiding in you?” 

“Ma foi, what advice do you suppose I gave him! 
I did not believe him. Why should I advise him to run 
away?” she queried with a shrug. “I told him he was 
a fool to give up a pleasurable existence for an uncer¬ 
tainty which might not even be true. Who was this 
Garcia? He might turn out to be a blackmailer.” 

“And what did Ramalho say to that?” questioned 
McKelvie. 

“He showed me the mark on his arm. I said that if 
that was what had made a coward of him, I could easily 
efface it for him. After that he would be perfectly 
safe,” she returned. “He was fond of luxury. To hide 

[ 259 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


himself away did not appeal. He followed my advice 
and remained at home. It would have been better if 
he had gone,” she ended somberly. 

“Where were you the night of the murder?” con¬ 
tinued McKelvie, presently. 

She lit a cigarette before she answered. “I was here 
dancing. I did not kill him. It is my one regret that 
I did not kill them both when I had the chance!” 
Though the words were passionate, the tone was that 
of a person conducting a pleasant conversation. She 
was recalling that her looks were paramount but her 
eyes betrayed her by their smoldering gaze. 

“From your conversation I am to imply that Ra- 
malho threw you over for someone else? Did you ever 
see the woman in question?” * 

Her words were bitter. “That is where the trouble 
started. He was playing a double-game, sending me 
flowers and notes, and spending the evenings with her. 
But I caught them at it. The first time, he brought her 
to see me dance—the audacity of it! He sat back in 
the shadows—thought I wouldn’t recognize him—came 
to my room between acts. But I wasn’t fooled. I saw 
him bending over her hand and murmuring love son¬ 
nets. The next evening they were at the restaurant to¬ 
gether. When I came in she looked at me with scorn 
and spoke to him. He raised his eyes from his glass 
and when he saw who it was he went white. I nodded 
[ 260 ] 


AT THE PALACIO 


to him to join me and he would have done so, but she 
addressed him again and he deliberately turned his 
back on me. It was then that I should have avenged 
myself—” She conquered her rising passion and added, 
“I never saw him again. But what does she care that 
he is dead and that my heart is broken? She has an¬ 
other puppet on her string now—and she can still 
laugh. . . . She is here to-night. You may have seen 
her, Monsieur.” 

“What is her name?” asked McKelvie slowly and 
my heart stood still while I awaited her answer. 

“She is a lady, une grande dame. Her name is Nita 
Giovanni, Contessa di Sforza, but she is no better than 
a demi-mondaine for all her fine airs,” replied the 
dancer, harshly. 

“You are mistaken.” The words came from my lips 
without conscious volition. She, the countess, to vie 
with Dolores Castro for the favor of a man like Duarte 
Ramalho! It was incredible; nay, more, it was impos¬ 
sible. “You have dreamed this tale of yours,” I said 
hotly. 

She smiled bitterly. “Has she stolen your wits, too, 
Senhor?” she remarked in her own tongue. “I have 
made no mistake. If you do not believe me she will 
tell you herself that I have spoken the truth. She will 
be delighted to display her prowess and to show you 
how easily she can make a man forget his former love.” 

1261 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


She sprang erect with clenched hands and impas- 
sioned eyes. “She thinks she is clever, but I, too, can 
play at that game. She shall pay—and sue me, Dolores 
Castro, whom she despises—sue me on her knees for 
every moment’s anguish she has caused mel” 

Her voice rang discordantly through the bare room, 
then broke, as she flung herself back into her chair. 
“Go,” she exclaimed, “go and warn her, if you dare!” 
She smiled at her reflection, the cruel crafty smile 
of the savage who is plotting the destruction of an 
enemy. 




[ 262 ] 


CHAPTER XXII 


NICCOLO 

I have no recollection of how we got away and re¬ 
turned to our box. My world had suddenly been top¬ 
pled from its placid base. The countess and Ramalho! 
That was all that I could think of. She was of too fine 
a fiber to deliberately stoop to take Judith’s husband 
away from the dancer, yet Dolores Castro was sincere 
in her accusation. The whole affair was too dreadful 
to contemplate and I waited impatiently for the act to 
be over since McKelvie had remarked as we entered 
our box, “We will give ourselves the pleasure of calling 
on the countess at the next intermission.” 

I looked across toward the spot where I knew she 
was sitting and I caught a momentary gleam of dia¬ 
monds as she moved (the theater was too dark to enable 
me to make out more than her outline). I recalled her 
boast to me that every beautiful woman possessed the 
power to make a man do as she wished, and I sat in 
misery for fifteen minutes tom between doubt and faith 
in the first woman who had ever succeeded in making 
an impression on my cold nature. 


[263] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


It was with a feeling of relief that I saw the curtain 
descend and the light flash on, and I could hardly con¬ 
tain myself in patience while an attendant carried our 
cards to the countess with the request that we be per¬ 
mitted to call. Graciously she acceded to our wish and 
we made our way through the brilliant crowds in the 
foyer to the entrance of her box. One moment I hesi¬ 
tated, then I followed McKelvie through the parted 
velvet curtains. 

At our entrance the man who had sat behind the 
countess and whose face I had been unable to dis¬ 
tinguish arose and bowed to us, whereupon the countess 
presented us and we bowed again, I in a state of be¬ 
wilderment bordering upon insanity, for the man, 
though introduced to us as Senhor Andrade, was none 
other than Santiago’s clerk, the sender of the telegram 
which had been signed Niccolo! At a glance from the 
countess, Andrade excused himself and left the box 
from which Parrish had already disappeared, and I 
followed the lanky form of the erstwhile clerk with 
fascinated eyes until the countess’s amused voice broke 
in upon my stupor, and I obeyed her injunction to draw 
up a chair. And then I recalled why we were here 
alone with her, and I sat in dread of McKelvie’s first 
words, fearful lest he should offend the countess, since 
her very presence had banished all my doubts concern¬ 
ing her. I need not have so fretted my soul. Though 
[264] 


NICCOLO 

he scorned subterfuge and flattery, McKelvie outdid 
Talleyrand himself. 

The countess was leaning back in her chair languidly 
waving her white ostrich fan back and forth before her 
face as she glanced swiftly from one to the other of us. 
McKelvie bent toward her. “You should always wear 
white, Countess. Have I your permission to tell you 
how beautiful you are looking to-night?” he inquired 
softly. 

She laughed and brushed his hand with the tip of her 
fan. “Flatterer,” she replied. “I have heard that you 
have no use for women, and so I know that you did not 
come here merely to compliment me.” 

“You are unkind,” he returned. “I was not flatter¬ 
ing, but indulging in solemn truth. You are right as to 
my motive, however. I came to ask you how you en¬ 
joyed Dolores Castro.” 

She raised her penciled brows the fraction of an 
inch. “Why select her in particular? There are others 
who did just as well as she.” 

McKelvie lifted his shoulders. “I named her be¬ 
cause she is the premiere danseuse. I take it that you 
did not care for her ‘Dance of the Soul?’ ” 

The countess shuddered. “It was too gruesome. 
She did not dance it when I was here last.” 

“Then you have seen her dance before?” 

“Oh, yes,” indifferently. “A number of times.” She 

[265] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

lowered her voice. “The last time I was with Duarte 
Ramalho. I don’t like to think of that.” 

“I did not know that you were on such terms of in¬ 
timacy with him/’ put in McKelvie quickly. 

“I knew him in Paris. When he heard that I was 
Were he called and begged me to go out with him. One 
must amuse oneself, and Gilbert was mysteriously busy 
when we first came ashore,” she returned with a smile. 

“Was not that a rather unconventional thing for him 
to do, to ask you to go out with him alone? It is not 
done here,” I amended. 

“Mon Dieu, Professor, I cannot live within four walls 
because the Brazilian ladies choose to do so. I am 
cosmopolitan. I am not hide-bound by rules and regu- 
fations,” she retorted, with an indignant upward move¬ 
ment of her slender white hands. 

“Did Ramalho take you anywhere else besides to the 
theater?” McKelvie resumed his interrogation. 

“We supped at a restaurant one night, a queer little 
place,” she answered, shaking her head at him. “I 
knew you had a deep and sinister motive behind your 
call. So now I too must be put through the third 
degree.” 

“Heaven forbid,” he enjoined fervently. “My motive 
is no deeper than this. I must have information if I 
am to solve this mystery and it occurred to me that I 
had not yet asked you any questions of importance.” 

[ 266 ] 


NICCOLO 


“What should I know?” she queried. “But I will tell 
you of my movements and you can judge for yourself. 
At this restaurant some young woman tried to flirt 
with Duarte Ramalho and he was on the point of 
abandoning me for her society (he had had one bottle 
of wine too many) when I told him point-blank that he 
would have to see me home first; then he might return 
if he so desired. He had enough wits left to agree and 
immediately after we left the restaurant. Whether he 
went back or not, I have no means of knowing.” 

“Did you know that this woman was Dolores 
Castro?” 

“The dancer?” There was amazement and increduli¬ 
ty blended in the tones of her voice. “No, I did not 
recognize her if it was. I had only seen her from a 
distance on the stage. She looked different in street 
costume.” 

“Did Ramalho tell you anything of himself and his 
life during these occasions?” 

“No, we renewed acquaintance and talked mostly of 
Paris.” 

“What was he doing in Paris?” 

She shrugged. “What do people go to Paris for, Mr. 
McKelvie, but to spend money? That is what he was 
doing, spending money. He had an unusual talent for 
the art.” 


[267] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

“Would you object to telling me where you were the 
night of the murder?” 

“I was at the Gloria Hotel in my room getting ready 
for my approaching marriage. I went to my room 
directly dinner was over and remained there through¬ 
out the entire evening,” she answered slowly. 

“Is not the young man to whom you just introduced 
me employed in Senhor Santiago’s law office?” 

“Yes, I believe he told me he was studying law with 
the old lawyer.” 

“Do you know the old gentleman?” 

“Senhor Santiago? Not personally.” 

“Forgive me my importunity. How well do you 
know Niccolo?” 

Her brows contracted as she asked in puzzled won¬ 
derment, “Who is Niccolo?” 

“I understood that Niccolo was Andrade’s given 
name,” he responded. 

She pursed her lips. “I only met him to-night. I 
can hardly be expected to know what his name is.” 

McKelvie rose, then stooped and picked up a gold 
cigarette case which he tendered to the countess with 
a bow. “Permit me to restore your property to you, 
Countess.” 

“Thank you. Won’t you indulge?” she asked with a 
quizzical smile, extending the opened case. 

“Not to-night, for here is your husband and our time 
[ 268 ] 


NICCOLO 

is up. Thank you for a pleasant ten minutes. Good 
evening, Countess.” 

“Au re voir. I trust we shall meet again sometime. 
Au revoir, Professor.” 

When we were again in the foyer, I spoke abruptly. 
“I’m going home, Mr. McKelvie. I have no longer any 
interest in the performance. You will pardon me if I 
desert you?” 

“I shall come with you, Professor, if you have not 
had a surfeit of my society. I, too, have lost interest 
in the art of Terpsichore,” he returned. 

We hired a taxi and as we drove homeward McKelvie 
leaned back against the cushions and discussed with 
me the significant points in the mass of information 
which we had managed to gather during the last few 
hours. 

“We clear up one difficulty, only to find ourselves 
impaled on the barbed wires of a new entanglement. I 
think we can safely piece together the first half of the 
picture and say that the three men, Garcia, Parrish, 
and Ramalho, are paying the penalty for some act in 
which their parents were involved. The sins of the 
fathers, you know. Two of the brothers have been 
located and killed. I cannot understand why Parrish 
has been overlooked.” 

“How do you know but that the avenger is waiting 
a favorable opportunity. Even as we drive home he 

1269] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

may be exacting the toll of another life,” I exclaimed. 

“We do not know, but to prevent any untoward acci¬ 
dents I got Diago to put a detective on Parrish’s trail. 
This man is to watch constantly and is never to let 
Parrish out of his sight during the day, is to sleep be¬ 
fore his door and challenge any who would enter, until 
this mystery is cleared up. I am not going to have 
Parrish on my conscience if I can possibly avoid it.” 

“Then you are convinced that Ramalho was killed 
because he belonged to the same race as Garcia? You 
do not lean toward the assumption that someone killed 
him out of jealousy?” I asked presently. 

“You are thinking of Dolores Castro? Jealousy is a 
tenable theory, of course, but I do not incline toward 
it. I am of the opinion that the murderer, or the 
avenger, or whatever you choose to call him, is either 
Italian or of Italian extraction. I have been wrong be¬ 
fore, I may be wrong again, but that is the theory I 
shall work on until I find it no longer holds water. 
Until that time there is no use in discarding it for a 
new one.” 

“The reason I asked you the question was this. We 
have only Garcia’s story as corroboration of the pur¬ 
pose of the appearance of the skull. How do we know 
that he did not make up the tale? There was something 
in his letter to Ramalho that puzzled me. Why did he 
go back to the orphanage in later years. He could not 
[ 270 ] 


NICCOLO 


know that they had a package for him,” I contended. 

“His going back was the most logical thing that he 
could have done and that act alone stamps the letter as 
a truthful account. He ran away from the orphanage 
but when he had made his pile, the first person he 
thought of and would naturally think of, was the 
brother whom he had left behind him. The orphanage 
keeps a record of its inmates. Through them he was 
enabled to discover what had become of Parrish.” 

“Yet Parrish said that he did not know Garcia was 
his brother until he came to New York,” I objected. 

“It may have taken Garcia several years to locate 
Parrish. I should not quibble over the truth of that 
statement quite so much as I should at Parrish’s denial 
of acquaintanceship with Niccolo,” he commented. “If 
the countess only met the fellow to-night we must per¬ 
force assume that he is her husband’s guest.” 

“Perhaps Parrish knew him only under the name of 
Andrade.” 

“Then why should the fellow sign to his telegram a 
name not known to the man with whom he was com¬ 
municating? Niccolo is an Italian name. I shouldn’t 
be surprised if Andrade was assumed for the evening. 
Perhaps the message miscarried and the spy, for that is 
evidently what he is, then communicated with his 
master in person. There is just one objection to con¬ 
necting Parrish and Niccolo, though, as that would 

[ 271 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


make Parrish cognizant of the circumstances of the 
death of Ramalho, and I’d stake my reputation on it 
that he knows nothing of that affair. Therefore I shall 
have to look into the question of the lawyer’s clerk a 
little more deeply before I can decide where he fits 
into the picture.” 

“As the avenger?” I suggested. 

“That all depends on whether he smokes Russian 
cigarettes or not. By the way, we can eliminate Dolores 
Castro on that score. She was smoking Egyptians, if 
you noticed.” 

As he spoke another quite different scene came to 
my mind, a vision of my companion returning to the 
countess her gold case and his refusal to help himself 
when she held it out to him open. The case had been 
well-stocked with what looked to me like a foreign 
brand of cigarettes, yet I hesitated to ask McKelvie 
outright what that brand might be. I did not want him 
to think that I could doubt the countess for one single 
moment or cherish a thought against her as unworthy 
as the one that had flitted across my brain more than 
once of late. 

My companion had been watching the struggle in 
my face. Now he laughed quietly. 

“You need not be ashamed of your suspicions, Pro¬ 
fessor,” he said. “I have been suspecting her myself. 
But set your mind at ease. The gold case was stocked 

1 272 1 


NICCOLO 


with Murads. Had the cigarettes been Russian I should 
not have hesitated to help myself if only to compare 
them with the samples already in my possession.” 

“I’m glad of that,” I returned. “Just as I am glad 
that the dancer’s accusations had no foundation except 
in her own distorted mind. I do not like to remember 
that the countess permitted Ramalho to take her out 
even if she had no motive other than just to amuse 
herself.” 

“You should not be so squeamish, Professor. Or 
would I be nearer the truth if I said, so jealous of her 
actions?” he answered with a twinkle. “Don’t look so 
glum. I’m afraid that we have only touched the surface 
in this affair and that the worst is yet to come.” 


[ 273 1 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE LAST ACT 

McKelvie was right as usual. What had gone be¬ 
fore was a pleasant and interesting excursion in com¬ 
parison with what that day brought forth. Despite 
the fact that I had tossed restlessly most of the night, 
I woke early, so early that the sun was just beginning 
to bathe the mountains in a flood of gold and crimson. 
Donning my bathrobe I stepped out upon my balcony 
to watch the transformation. 

Beyond the bay a golden fan of light irradiated the 
world, dispelling the darkness and mists of yesternight 
as surely from my heart as from the encircling moun¬ 
tains; flirting with each grim peak until it had con¬ 
quered even the most inapproachable and darkest spots, 
and the sun himself had risen, a great red ball, to blot 
out the last faint shadows from the sable garments of 
the night. 

By the time I came down to breakfast I was in quite 
an exalted mood and in the sunshine of Judith’s beam¬ 
ing face, shyly reflected in that of Maria Theresa, I 

1274] 


THE LAST ACT 


quite forgot all the trials and tribulations with which 
the case had been previously beset. I hadn’t been at 
table five minutes before I was hurled once more into 
the very thick of the fray. There was a sharp ring at 
the bell and the next moment McKelvie stood in the 
doorway. I did not need to hear his voice to know that 
a tragedy had occurred, for his face was gray and his 
eyes wore a look which was as sorrowful as it was stern. 

“I’m sorry to intrude,” he said, quickly, as the family 
rose en masse bristling with horrified exclamations and 
questions. “Can you come with me at once, Professor?” 
and without waiting for my answer he turned on his 
heel and left the house. Hastily I followed him. In 
the car I found the delegado and a smaller man, an ex¬ 
citable little man who kept bouncing up and down in 
his seat and urging the driver to hasten. 

“What has happened?” I demanded. “They 
haven’t-?” 

“It’s that cursed skull again,” he returned somberly. 
“I’m afraid they’ve got Parrish, too.” 

“And the countess?” I begged fearfully. 

“I don’t know. The delegado came around for me 
as soon as he heard, but Diago is away and I could not 
make out much beyond Parrish and the skull. Ask 
him to give you the details, will you?” He passed his 
hand wearily across his forehead. 

I addressed the man sitting erect and impassive be- 

1275 ] 



THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

side us and requested him to explain what had hap¬ 
pened. He spread out his hands, and shrugged. 

“It is the dancer, Senhor, who is to blame,” he 
replied. “The thing occurred at her house. Pires, the 
detective who was watching Senhor Parrish,” he nod¬ 
ded his head toward the nervous individual in the front 
seat, “came to my office this morning and said that'the 
dancer had rushed out to him and told him that Senhor 
Parrish was dead.” 

“Didn’t he get any details?” I interposed, annoyed. 

“He came posthaste to tell me, and of course I went 
at once for Senhor McKelvie.” 

“And you know nothing more?” 

“Nothing more except that Dolores Castro kept re¬ 
peating over and over something about a skull. She 
was dazed. He could get nothing from her.” 

I felt like using the countess’s epithet. I told Mc¬ 
Kelvie the gist of this conversation, but he had sunk 
to such a low mental ebb that even their negligence 
failed to arouse a cutting comment. He asked me to 
interrogate Pires. 

I leaned forward and touched the detective on the 
shoulder and when I had made myself clear he turned 
in his seat and gave me an account of his actions dur¬ 
ing the previous night. He was a voluble personage, 
but his information was the merest husk of his conver¬ 
sational orgy. 

[276] 


THE LAST ACT 

He had followed Parrish from the Palacio and to the 
door of his room at the Gloria. Hotel. Living strictly 
up to the orders he had received, Pires paced the hall 
while he awaited the management’s cooperation in the 
matter of a cot. While thus employed he was surprised 
to see Parrish leave his room and descend to the lobby. 
Instantly Pires was on his trail. Outside the hotel 
Parrish summoned a taxi and as Pires fastened him¬ 
self like a barnacle to the back of the machine, the two 
of them arrived quite safely at the Palacio again. Here 
Parrish met Dolores Castro and drove her home. He 
only saw her as far as the door, however, and dismissing 
the taxi spent the night roaming the streets. True to 
his profession and his orders from the chief, Pires fol¬ 
lowed whither Parrish led, through broad thorough¬ 
fares, along the deserted avenues, down side streets, 
around the shores of the bay until the dawn began to 
break in the eastern sky. 

Then Parrish, worn and weary with his mental fight, 
returned not to the Gloria but to the dancer’s hotel, 
and Pires, seeing him safely anchored in Dolores 
Castro’s apartments, permitted himself to rest his tired 
body in a chair in the lobby. His next remembrance is 
of the dancer in her kimono with terror-stricken face 
and streaming hair, screaming at the top of her voice 
that Parrish was dead. With his brain dulled by his 
heavy sleep Pires could make nothing of her account, 

12771 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

and decided that his duty bade him hasten to head¬ 
quarters for help to straighten out the tangle. 

The dancer’s hotel was in one of the less reputable 
portions of town, a hostelry for chorus ladies and 
musical comedy actors, and we found the lobby alive 
with people, a hive of buzzing, incompetent humanity. 
We did not pause to parley but hurried up the stairs to 
the second floor where Dolores Castro had her apart¬ 
ment. At our knock she opened the door a crack and 
recognizing McKelvie she broke out into a flood of 
weeping reproach, spoken in almost unintelligible 
French. 

“Do not look at me like that, Monsieur. Indeed I 
did not know that it would mean his death. I wanted 
to revenge myself. I told you I wanted to bring her to 
her knees. But I never dreamed that—that the skull 
would take him, too.” 

“Don’t stand there chattering in the doorway. Let 
us in,” commanded McKelvie tersely, and as she drew 
back he pushed past her into the room. 

We followed at his heels into a large glaring apart¬ 
ment, overfurnished and decked out in bright colors 
that leaped from table cover, from hangings and walls 
to strike you in the face. But it was not the room that 
made our senses reel. It was that huddled figure lying 
on the floor beneath the window. It needed no second 
glance to tell us who it was though the scar had faded 
[278] 


THE LAST ACT 

to a dead white seam and the handsome face wore that 
look of horror which had startled us in the countenances 
of Garcia and Ramalho. 

For a long tense moment we stood and gazed upon 
Parrish, for the knife that was buried to the hilt in his 
heart was proof enough that he was beyond the power 
of any aid we could afford him; then McKelvie kneeled 
down and bared the dead man’s chest, for the white 
shirt gave evidence of having been recently pulled open. 
None of us were greatly amazed at finding the brand 
of the ivory skull, flawless and perfect, seared into the 
flesh. We were far more astonished to discover the 
skull itself lying upon the floor near his outstretched 
arm, and to note that in his hand he held a roll of pa¬ 
pers, old and yellowed with the passage of time. 

As McKelvie possessed himself of the papers I put 
forth my hand to take up the skull but he circumvented 
me. Scooping it up with the papers he dropped it in 
his pocket. 

“Better not touch it,” he said, as he stood up. “We 
have as yet no means of knowing how the acid reacts.” 
He searched the room until his eyes fell upon the dancer 
who sat, a penitent heap, upon the sofa at the other 
end of the apartment. Slowly he walked over and 
seated himself beside her. 

“Mademoiselle, will you tell me, please, what he was 
doing here in your rooms,” he inquired quietly. It 

1279 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


was not necessary to be more explicit. She understood 
perfectly to whom he referred. 

Dolores Castro wiped her cheeks with her bright 
handkerchief and gazed before her with a semitragic 
look in her black eyes. 

“I meant him no harm,” she said dolorously. “I 
wanted to make her suffer as she had made me, and I 
knew she looked on him with eyes of love.” The pro¬ 
nouns, spoken with all the intensity of her passionate 
nature, were as definite as the names of the countess 
and Parrish would have been. “I sent him an invita¬ 
tion to my dressing-room during one of the entr’ actes 
last night. It was after you had seen me, Monsieur. 
He came but he was bored.” 

“And so you laid a trap to snare the bird?” inquired 
McKelvie cuttingly as she paused. 

“Yes, Monsieur. It must have been the devil him¬ 
self that whispered in my ear that M. Parrish re¬ 
sembled that pictured face, that he might be interested 
in the contents of that letter I had given you. I sent 
him word that if he desired to know about the skull, 
I could tell him all he wished to learn. He got my 
message as he was leaving the Palacio. Half an hour 
later he was back in my dressing-room where I knew 
he would come. I told him the letter was at my hotel. 
He drove me home. On the way I bargained with him.” 

“And the bargain?” 

[280] 


THE LAST ACT 


As she narrated her evil designs her hatred of the 
countess had gradually conquered any softer emotion 
which she may have felt for Parrish’s tragic end, until 
now she showed her teeth in a cruel smile as she re¬ 
vealed the lengths to which she had been willing to go 
to secure her rival’s downfall. 

“I told him a heartbreaking tale of having quarreled 
with my lover. The only way to make him appreciate 
me, I said, was to make him jealous. If M. Parrish 
would consent to send me flowers, to take me out once 
or twice I would give him the letter which I held, pro¬ 
vided his part of the bargain were fulfilled first. He 
refused indignantly. He declared I had no such letter. 
I let him see that I knew something of the skull, enough 
to frighten him considerably, and he said he would 
think it over and give me his decision in the morning.” 

She swept on passionately. “I cared nothing that 
when the time was up I would have no information to 
reveal. I only knew that if M. Parrish took me out 
even once I should contrive that she should know it 
and that she feel the pangs of jealousy which I have 
felt. In the morning early, so early that I was still 
abed, M. Parrish returned. I admitted him to my 
sitting-room. He declared himself willing to do as I 
asked if only I would tell him what I knew of the skull. 
He was in mortal fear; his face was white and haggard; 
he looked like a man who had not slept. I told him 

[281] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

to wait while I hunted the letter. I could have laughed 
aloud at the way fate had played into my hands. I 
slipped out into the hall and went downstairs to phone 
the countess. But I could not get the connection, so 
I returned upstairs. When I entered this room I found 
him there alone, dead, as you see him now, Monsieur. 
I do not know who killed him. I only know I did not 
wish him any harm.” Her voice dropped to a fright¬ 
ened whimper again. 

There was loathing as well as contemptuous pity in 
the glance McKelvie bestowed upon the dancer. She 
caught the look and flared out at him with a last spark 
of sulphurous hatred. 

“You think me vile, you look down and despise me,” 
she broke out, “and you condemn without understand¬ 
ing. No man can understand the feelings and thoughts 
of a woman who has been scorned, whose soul is goaded 
on by the pricks of jealousy to gain her ends by any 
mea~s she can. A curse upon you. May you too 
suffer as I have done! ” 

Like a hissing venomous serpent, she glided to the 
door and slammed it to behind her. We all drew re¬ 
lieved breaths at the breaking of the high tension under 
which we had been held by the dancer’s fury, and the 
delegado crossed himself to ward off the curse. 

McKelvie was the first to speak. Taking a card 
from his pocket he inscribed a few words on it, slipped 
[ 282 ] 


THE LAST ACT 


it into an envelope which he borrowed from the dancer’s 
desk, then he laid a hand upon my arm. 

“Tell Pires to take this to the countess,” he said, 
“and ask the dele gad o to take some of his men and 
bring Santiago’s clerk here at once.” 

Dazedly I obeyed him and when the two Brazilians 
had departed on their separate errands I asked Mc- 
Kelvie the question which had been uppermost in my 
mind since entering the room. 

“You have told the countess the truth?” I inquired. 
“That her husband, too, is a victim of the skull?” 

“I have told her the truth,” he repeated solemnly. 
“God have pity upon her.” 

He shook off impatiently the lethargy which had 
assailed him since hearing of Parrish’s death, and un¬ 
rolled the papers he still carried in his hand. Together 
we bent over the manuscript, for that is what it was, 
a manuscript written in Italian and dated 1762. I am 
transcribing the legend as we read it on that fated 
morning in Dolores Castro’s sitting-room. 


[283] 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE LEGEND OF THE SKULL 

“My son, 

The learned doctors tell me that I have not long to 
live and thou art far from home; therefore must I con¬ 
fide to paper what should be only for thine ears to 
hear, the story of that dread deed of long ago that has 
left its mark upon our house. Guard well the secret 
and when thy turn comes to face thy Maker intrust 
the tale to thy son that it may be preserved throughout 
the ages yet to come. From my father I had the nar¬ 
rative in this wise. 

In the year 1550 of our Lord, the head of the house 
of Giovanni was a handsome, bold, but cruel and 
sinister man who bore the name of Lord Giaco. Though 
he had a goodly portion of this world’s goods and could 
have bought himself the privilege of remaining home, 
he was also a soldier and fonder of the sword than of 
the hunt. For this reason he cast in his lot with the 
Emperor Charles V. Before he left home to go to war, 
[284] 


THE LEGEND OF THE SKULL 

Giaco, that his race might not die out, contracted a 
marriage with a lady of high birth with whom, it was 
rumored, he had long been in love. 

But though the lady, her name has been lost through¬ 
out the centuries, married Lord Giaco in obedience to 
the will of her parents, she hated and feared him for 
his cruelty, and when he was safely gone, she enter¬ 
tained secretly at the castle the man she really cared 
for. One of the servants, as crafty as his master, got 
wind of the affair and postehasted it to warn Giaco. 
The fury of the wronged husband was terrible to be¬ 
hold and the servant cowered beneath the lash of his 
words. When he had quieted down Giaco ordered his 
horse saddled and rode at a gallop through the night 
and storm until he came in sight of his castle where 
one light like a beacon told him that he should find the 
pair he sought in the great, high-ceilinged room that 
served as an antechamber to his own apartments. 
Flinging the bridle over his horse’s neck, he leaped 
from the saddle, and knocked at the door. The old 
major-domo opened to his master but without a word 
Giaco strode past the old man and went clanking up 
the stairs, his sword rattling in its sheath and his spurs 
jingling at every step. But the lovers heard him not 
and he stood in the doorway, a grim and terrible figure, 
until a chance sound directed his wife’s attention to 
the door. With a cry of horror she bade her lover flee 

[285] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

but he had no more than reached the casement when 
Giaco, drawn sword in hand, overtook his rival and 
ran him through before his lady’s eyes. Then gather¬ 
ing her fainting form in his arms he bore her to the 
tower where he kept her imprisoned until such a time 
as he could wreak upon her a vengeance the like of 
which only his cruel and crafty nature could devise. 

He caused to have made a miniature in ivory of that 
dead lover’s skull and into it he poured a powerful acid 
which a chemist had invented, an acid so constructed 
in its proportions that it would burn the flesh whereon 
it fell as red-hot iron burns it; yet it affected in no wise 
the ivory of which the fateful skull had been evolved. 
Into his wife’s presence then he came one day and tell¬ 
ing her jeeringly whose skull he bore he branded her 
upon the forehead much as in a later day criminals 
were branded for breaking the law. Standing above 
her where she lay before him with disheveled tresses, 
he pronounced his curse upon her. 

‘Thou shalt live to old age spurned and scorned by 
humankind for death shall flee thee until thou hast paid 
in full; thou shalt bear a son and thou shalt live to see 
him die by violence; dying he shall be damned eternally 
and the curse shall follow him through all generations 
forever and ever.’ 

He looked upon her with cruel eyes as he hurled his 
hatred at her and she cowered in terror but when he 
[286] 


THE LEGEND OF THE SKULL 


was done she gave a laugh, high and shrill, a laugh 
that chilled his blood and made his heart stand still. 

‘Thou hast cursed thine own,’ she shrilled. ‘Be¬ 
hold, the son that I shall bear within the month is 
thine.’ 

Such, my son, is the legend of the skull which has 
come down to me and because of Giaco’s mad passion 
we too are accursed, for always there is trouble in our 
family. Keep secret the skull and the formula of that 
acid, for who knows but that thou, too, mayst need to 
avenge thyself in some such wise. God’s blessing upon 
thee. 

Francesco Giovanni. 

In the year 1762.” 

Slowly McKelvie rolled up the manuscript and ex¬ 
tended it to me. “This is more in your line than mine, 
Professor,” he remarked, and watched me bestow it 
with utmost care in one of my pockets. The manuscript 
was priceless. I knew several archaeologists who would 
have given their right hands to possess it. 

“What an exquisite refinement of torture those fel¬ 
lows were capable of devising,” continued McKelvie 
thoughtfully. “The Inquisition was merciful by com¬ 
parison. There is no physical pain or suffering which 
can wring the soul as a tortured mind can wring it.” 

[287] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


“But,” I expostulated, “this is merely a legend. 
There may be no truth in it.” 

“How about the skull, Professor? That is not an 
illusion, is it?” he retorted calmly. 

“You don’t mean that you take that curse of Giaco’s 
seriously in this day and age?” I could not believe 
that he was superstitious. 

“In this day and age,” he repeated and laughed grat¬ 
ingly, cynically. “Are you implying that civilization 
has made us less cruel, more charitable toward the ac¬ 
tions and of the motives of our fellow-men?” He 
pointed to the body of Parrish which still lay upon the 
floor before the window. “There is your answer, sir. 
Civilization? Do you suppose his torment was any 
less vivid, any less terrible than that of the lady who 
caused the original trouble? In 1550 war spelled no 
such civilized attainments as poisoned gas, and sub¬ 
marines, and the wholesale slaughter of the aged and 
innocent.” He gloomed in silence with brooding eyes 
as though his mind had revivified scenes which he never 
could forget; then he roused himself with an impatient 
shrug. “What crime were these three brothers guilty 
of to cause so terrible a vengeance to overtake them? 
Or does it go further back, as I hinted before, and is 
their mother to blame that they have met their end so 
tragically?” 

[288] 


THE LEGEND OF THE SKULL 

I was doing some thinking of my own. “I do not see 
how she could have been to blame. She was the wife 
of a Brazilian; these men were her sons and his if we 
are to believe Garcia’s letter. It may be that she is of 
the race of Giovanni, but that would mean that the 
curse is still active and I don’t see how it can be.” 

“Neither do I. A curse that holds good for some 
four hundred odd years is a remarkable phenomenon. 
Like the White Queen I have trained myself to believe 
in all manner of impossible things, but I’ll have to draw 
the line at that. We should be nearer the truth if we 
were to hazard that some man has dared to utilize the 
legend for his own vile purpose.” 

“You are referring to Niccolo?” I asked. 

He answered the question by throwing open the door. 
“Here come the police. I hope they were in time.” 

But evidently something was wrong, for they were 
empty-handed; the delegado very much out of breath 
and not a little annoyed, his men looking sheepish and 
crestfallen. 

“We went at once to Senhor Santiago’s office,” he 
said to me, mopping his bald head with a large red-silk 
bandana. “The clerk was missing. Senhor Santiago 
had not seen him since yesterday afternoon. Then we 
went to his lodgings. He had left early this morning, 
bag and baggage. While we talked to the landlady, he 
suddenly appeared in the doorway but at sight of us 

[289] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

he turned tail and fled and we after him. He had a 
taxi at the door. By the time we got into our car and 
got it started he was far ahead. He made for the Cen¬ 
tral Station but when we got there he was nowhere to 
be seen. He must have left by the first train. We are 
making inquiries. It is the best we can do now.” 

The delegado shook his head as much as to say that 
he was not altogether to blame that the quarry had 
evaded him, but McKelvie, when he had heard the 
report, did not seem to be greatly overwrought over 
the escape of Niccolo. He was listening intently to the 
sound of hurrying feet. 

“The countess,” he said quickly. 

“The countess!” I echoed in alarm. “Good heavens, 
man, keep her out of this room!” and I looked appre¬ 
hensively toward the window. 

“The man is her husband. We cannot keep her out,” 
he replied shortly. “Tell the delegado he will be more 
useful tracking down Niccolo than standing around in 
this room of death.” 

Scarcely had the delegado removed himself with his 
men than Nita, her face white and piteous, stood in the 
door. Straight as a ray of light her eyes flashed to 
the window and the next moment she had crossed the 
intervening space to her husband’s side. I braced my¬ 
self for a scene but she made no sound, just knelt there 
1290] 


THE LEGEND OF THE SKULL 


with clasped hands as if she were praying, motionless 
and rigid as an effigy in stone. 

Very slowly and very quietly McKelvie closed the 
door and into that pregnant silence his words dropped 
hollowly like dead weights falling through cavernous 
depths. 

“Nita Giovanni, I arrest you for the murder of 
Garcia, of Ramalho, and lastly of your husband, Gil¬ 
bert Parrish.” 

I stood dumb, stricken, waiting to hear her deny the 
monstrous accusation, but she never moved and he 
swept on with growing passion, “Why have you done 
this thing? What crime have these men committed 
against yourself that you could deliberately kill them 
one by one? Had you no love for the man you married 
that you could plunge a dagger into his heart?” 

“Mr. McKelvie,” I cried out, unable to believe my 
ears, “what are you saying?” and then I fell silent as 
Nita half turned toward us. 

“It was because I loved him so very much that I 
killed him,” she replied sadly. “Niccolo came to me 
this morning and told me that Gilbert had spent the 
night here with Dolores Castro. Gilbert had left me 
without a word and so I believed what Niccolo told me. 
Do you think I am the kind to stand that?” she de¬ 
manded with a passionate gesture. 


[ 291 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL' 

“I told you in my note where your husband had spent 
the night,” interjected McKelvie harshly. 

“I know it was all a mistake.” She fell to weeping 
softly. “But he will forgive me. It was not I that was 
to blame but Niccolo and my fear of the skull. I might 
have known I could not sweep aside the curse so 
lightly.” 

McKelvie went over to her and attempted to raise 
her but she resisted his efforts. 

“No, let me stay here beside him, Monsieur.” She 
sat down on the floor and took Parrish’s head in her 
lap brushing the thick hair gently with her fingertips. 

“Will you tell us your story, Madame?” asked Mc¬ 
Kelvie. “I have guessed a part but I am still ignorant 
of the real motive back of this affair.” 

For a long time she sat and stared vacantly into space 
before her like a person whose brain has become 
numbed by too much suffering, then as the sense of his 
words penetrated at last to her consciousness, she 
looked up at him and nodded. 

“Yes, I will tell you,” she answered wearily and I 
saw her eyes wander to the spot where the skull had 
lain and to the hand that had held the manuscript. 
“Perhaps you had better be seated for it’s a long story, 
Monsieur.” 

McKelvie took up a position in the embrasure of the 
window where he could watch her face while I chose a 

1292 ] 


THE LEGEND OF THE SKULL 


chair beside the table in the center of the room, chose 
it in a daze like a man who is held in the grip of a 
nightmare. And sitting there on the floor with the 
dead man’s head in her lap Nita Giovanni told us the 
story of her ill-starred life. 


[ 293 1 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE FULFILMENT OF THE CURSE 

“You have read the legend and so you know some¬ 
thing of the motive that caused me to take these lives. 
If I am to blame, my education is at fault. I was born 
and brought up for just such a terrible purpose as this, 
born in hate and nurtured in hate that a man might 
carry out his one insane desire for vengeance upon the 
woman who betrayed him. Do not judge me until you 
have heard the truth, I beg you.” 

The beautiful eyes turned in soft appeal toward Me- 
Kelvie and the set lines of his face relaxed as he prom¬ 
ised her this consideration. 

“Many years ago my father fell in love with a beauti¬ 
ful young woman, Nita Carini. He wooed and won 
her and prepared with joy to attend the wedding to 
which he had invited all his many high-born friends. 
The marriage was to take place in the cathedral; the 
guests were gathered for the ceremony; the bishop him¬ 
self had arrived; the moment came for the bride to ap¬ 
pear, but no bride could be found. Her parents de¬ 
clared that she had come with them to the church. 

[ 294 ] 


THE FULFILMENT OF THE CURSE 


Time passed but no bride was forthcoming and then 
as they were about to make search someone handed the 
groom a telegram. 

“ ‘When you read these lines, I shall be on my way 
to marry the man I love. Forgive me and forget. 

Nita/ 

“Had she told him her intentions previous to the 
date of the wedding he might have forgiven, but she 
had made him the butt of the community, she had 
jilted him at the very steps of the altar. In his veins 
ran the blood of the cruel Giaco. He lifted up his 
voice and cursed her there before them all and then 
he strode away to find a means of avenging the pride 
which she had cut so deeply.” 

She related the story in a dreary monotone, too tired 
to feel any resentment against the persons who were 
responsible for her troubles. 

“The legend was a curiosity in the family. For 
months my father brooded over it while he endeavored 
to wrench from the old formula the secret of the acid. 
But he wrought in vain, whether because it was not 
complete or because he could not get hold of the proper 
chemicals, I do not know, and so he was forced to 
postpone the idea of immediate vengeance. And as 
he brooded a bigger, more terrible scheme leaped into 
being in his mad and crafty brain. He had learned that 

[ 295 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 


Nita Carini was living happily in Paris; that she ex¬ 
pected soon to become a mother. He went secretly to 
the French capital and the night the child was born he 
contrived to creep into the room where the child lay 
and, rendering the nurse insensible by a judicious ap¬ 
plication of chloroform, he pricked into the child’s arm 
the outline of a skull. 

“He had once, in the days of their courtship, read 
to Nita the legend of the skull, telling her laughingly 
that should she ever prove untrue to her marriage vows 
her children would be damned. Imagine her feelings 
when she saw that mark upon her babe, for she was 
intensely superstitious and very devout. If she lived 
in fear and dread she kept it to herself. 

“My father returned home and married that he might 
have a son to carry on the work he had begun. Heaven 
granted his desire but the child lived a bare three years 
and in the meantime Nita had borne another son. True 
to his plan my father again secretly marked the babe 
for his own. And still the formula preserved its secret 
though he worked upon it night and day. 

“At the birth of her third son, Nita’s terror had 
grown into conviction. She had drawn upon herself the 
vengeance of the skull and she feared for her children’s 
souls. She deserted her husband and disappeared with 
her two eldest sons. Nothing daunted, my father set 
about discovering her whereabouts but when he finally 
[296] 


THE FULFILMENT OF THE CURSE 


located her he found her dead. It was then that his 
brain cracked, for he felt that she had eluded him, and 
he made up his mind that her sons should pay for her 
escape. So wild and cruel, and yet so cunning did he 
become that he was known throughout the neighbor¬ 
hood as the ‘Mad Count.’ 

“It was just about this time that my mother brought 
me into the world and my father deemed that I had 
been given him in answer to his prayers. He named 
me Nita and, as my mother died shortly after, he had 
the sole care of me. He taught me to hate all men, but 
Nita’s sons especially. I came to think of them as 
monsters who should be destroyed that the world might 
be freed from their dire presence. I looked upon my¬ 
self as the chosen instrument of the gods and I became 
almost as fanatical as my father himself. He taught 
me particularly to flirt, to coquette, to break hearts and 
laugh while doing it. And then when he considered my 
education complete he sent me to Paris to practice upon 
the moths who fluttered about the light of my beauty. 

“And always he worked upon the formula, for in his 
distorted mind vengeance would not be complete with¬ 
out the skull. And he would have failed but for Nic- 
colo, my cousin, who came to pay him a visit, Niccolo, 
who was a chemist and to whom my father showed the 
formula. The acid was brewed and I was sent for. 
When I had received my instructions (my father had 

1297 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

never lost sight of the three young men) he made me 
swear by all I held sacred that I would not fail him. 
I swore but he was not satisfied and he pronounced 
upon me Giaco’s curse if I should leave one of the three 
alive.” 

If one is tempted to condemn her for accepting this 
trust, remember that to her that curse was potent, that 
the saving of her soul meant more to her than the tak¬ 
ing of a life. 

She went on more slowly. “I met Garcia on the 
steamer coming to New York. I made myself so fas¬ 
cinating that he proposed and I accepted him. That 
was part of the game. When we arrived in port, he 
left me in the city while he went West on business. I 
sent him a card to notify him that he was doomed.” 

“How could you know that he would understand the 
significance of that card?” interrupted McKelvie. 

“Because when he proposed to me he told me he had 
something to tell me which might affect my answer and 
he gave me his mother’s letter to read. She claimed 
that she came from a race accursed and to me who 
knew the truth this seemed but added aggravation. 
Sometime later as it drew near the time to take 
vengeance Garcia returned to New York and sent me 
a letter in which he said that he intended to die that 
night to cheat the avenger. In fear that he might kill 
himself I disguised myself as a man and went to his 
[ 298 ] 


THE FULFILMENT OF THE CURSE 


hotel. I got there about quarter to twelve and when I 
saw him lying in the chair with closed eyes and a knife 
in his chest I thought he had cheated me and caused 
my father’s curse to fall upon me. But when I got close 
to him I saw he was still alive. The knife had not gone 
in deep enough. I brought him back to consciousness 
and forced him to recognize me, telling him the truth 
about his mother and the skull. When he looked at me 
in horror I killed him, branded him and fled. 

“Don’t think I don’t hate myself for what I did,” 
she exclaimed. “From the moment I met Gilbert I 
have despised myself and oh, how I have hated the man 
who made me what I am.” 

“Yet you killed Ramalho after you met Parrish,” 
put in McKelvie. 

She drew a sobbing breath. “Yes, yes, but it was 
fear and Niccolo that drove me on. When I met 
Gilbert I had decided to go to Rio, knowing that Ra¬ 
malho lived there and I determined to make Gilbert 
follow me because it was too dangerous to commit an¬ 
other murder of the same type in New York. On the 
steamer I fell in love with Gilbert and when he proposed 
I accepted him in earnest.” 

“One moment. Was it you who took the skull from 
the professor?” 

“Yes. I wore it on a chain about my neck. Some¬ 
how it became loosened and I thought I had lost it. I 

1 299 j 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

was just emerging from the companionway to look for 
it when I saw the professor standing there looking at it. 
I did not want to have to go into any explanations so I 
snatched it from him just as Gilbert passed by.” She 
spoke as though I had no existence for her. 

“When I got to Rio I made up my mind that I was 
through. I would brave the curse for I could not kill 
the man I loved nor would I take vengeance upon Ra- 
malho for he was married and I did not care to make 
his wife unhappy. Then Niccolo turned up. He had 
promised my father that he would make me kill these 
men. He pointed out to me that Ramalho was a bad 
husband, that I would be doing the wife a favor to kill 
him, but I refused. Then he said that he himself would 
kill Gilbert unless I obeyed. He gave me but a few 
days. To save the man I loved, I sent for Ramalho. 
I had met him in Paris. I flirted with him and got him 
sufficiently interested in me to make him willing to give 
me a rendezvous. Then I sent him the skull. Niccolo 
had told me because he had learned of it from the 
lawyer Santiago that Ramalho had received a box left 
by Garcia, and so again I knew he would understand. 
There was no time to send a card, besides, I had another 
motive. My father had said that if the victim destroyed 
the skull the curse would be at an end, and oh, how I 
prayed that Ramalho would have the sense to rid him¬ 
self of the hateful object.” 

[300] 


THE FULFILMENT OF THE CURSE 


“Why did you not send it to Parrish instead. He 
would have destroyed it,” interposed McKelvie. 

She wrung her hands. “How could I know that and 
if he did not I would have had to kill him. No, I dared 
not trust to luck in his case.” 

She added presently, “Gilbert called on Ramalho the 
day I sent the skull and so I went with him to see how 
Ramalho was affected. He took Gilbert out of the room 
to get a drink, then came hurrying back alone. He 
said he was going away and could not meet me. I told 
him that at eight in his library would suit me just as 
well, that I had something of importance to tell him. 
He acquiesced and went back to Gilbert. It was then 
that I saw the dagger on the table. I took it away with 
me. That night I reached the house too early. I 
smoked a cigarette until a light flashed on and I saw 
him at the library window. I entered and told him I 
had come for the skull. He was a coward. He had 
thrown it into an uncovered urn in a fit of temper. He 
recovered it for me and when he faced me again I told 
him I was the avenger and killed him. He fell on his 
face and I had to turn him over. I did not want any¬ 
one to be blamed for the crime so I drew out the knife 
and wiped the blade, putting the weapon back on the 
table where I had found it. I had my gloves on so I 
did not think of wiping the hilt. Then I branded the 
body and hurried away. 


[301] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

“The rest you know. I married Gilbert but I had 
no peace. Niccolo kept tormenting me but I would not 
heed him, and then this morning he came to tell me what 
he knew would make me take Gilbert’s life. He said 
that my husband was here with that woman. I, to be 
scorned for Ramalho’s paramour!” 

It was almost a repetition of the expression the 
dancer had used but Nita’s indignation and passionate 
avowal were superb in comparison and I began to un¬ 
derstand something of the untamed nature which her 
father and Niccolo had played upon, harping ever, as 
a minstrel might, in a persistent monotone, upon the 
strings of hatred and of fear. 

“Niccolo taunted me and I snatched up the knife he 
offered and hastened to see for myself whether he spoke 
the truth. When I saw Gilbert here in her room I was 
beside myself. I held out the skull to him and told him 
the truth. Before he could explain himself I had killed 
him, I, who would have died to save him.” 

She looked down upon Parrish with quivering lips 
and then before either of us could move to prevent her, 
she plucked the knife from out his chest and plunged 
it to the hilt in her own fair breast. 

I turned away my face but McKelvie was made of 
sterner stuff. He spoke to her again. “And this man, 
your father, is he still living?” 

She fumbled at her dress and drew out from a hidden 

13021 


THE FULFILMENT OF THE CURSE 

pocket a cablegram which she extended to McKelvie. 
He read it aloud. 

“Your father dead.” 

“It came—this morning . . . When I got back—I 
found it,” she added. 

“Where has Niccolo gone?” 

“I do—not know.” She made a movement as though 
to draw out the dagger, then she shook her head with a 
tremulous smile. “After all,” she whispered, “it is only 
—a little while longer, and I would not spoil—the dress 
he liked so well.” 

She was a glorious woman, Nita Giovanni, Contessa 
di Sforza. What an infinite pity that hers should have 
been so tragic a fate! 


13031 


CHAPTER XXVI 


CONCLUSION 

We took the skull to Penna and when he had emptied 
it of its acid McKelvie presented me with the curio. 
I accepted the gift gladly since not even its ghastly 
history could lessen its value in my eyes. As we left 
the doctor’s office I asked McKelvie a question which 
had been in my mind since I had learned the truth con¬ 
cerning the mystery of the skull. 

“Did you know that the countess was responsible 
when you heard of Parrish’s death?” I asked. 

He nodded. “I knew last night, that is, I guessed as 
much. I had noticed when we called on her at the 
Palacio that she was fanning herself with her left hand. 
When I arrived home I got Diago to send for a copy 
of Niccolo’s telegram. It was addressed Sra. not Sr. 
Gilbert Parrish. You noticed only the name and 
jumped to the conclusion that the telegram was for the 
husband and not the wife.” 

“I had no possible idea that he was married,” I re¬ 
torted in extenuation. 

1304] 


CONCLUSION 


He went right on as though I had not spoken. “This 
morning I received confirmation from Paris and Italy. 
Nita, Carini had jilted the Count of Sforza to marry 
Manoel Ramalho. The Count of Sforza was named 
Francesco Giovanni, and he was Nita’s father. When 
I had read the legend I had the whole case revealed to 
me like an open book.” 

“Yet you asked her for her story?” 

“I wanted to learn all the ramifications and I was 
curious to know how she reconciled her actions,” he 
replied. 

Nothing affected him. I passed on to something else. 
“Why did you tell me, then, that she did not smoke 
Russian cigarettes?” 

“That was a quibble. I was referring to the gold- 
case I had handed her. It was a man’s case and it bore 
the initials G. P. Her husband’s, of course. I knew 
you would misunderstand me but I had an end in view. 
I wanted to set your mind at ease, Professor.” 

“Then you would have let her go free?” I demanded. 

“Last night I would have. She was merely the tool. 
But when she killed Parrish, she took the case out of 
my hands. I could not condone that last act.” 

“Did you know that she intended to kill herself?” 

“I hoped she would. It was the best way out for 
everyone concerned.” 


[ 305 ] 


THE VENGEANCE OF THE IVORY SKULL 

“And Niccolo?” 

“Let us consult the delegado for the latest reports 
concerning that young man. We have nothing against 
him, however. We cannot jail him for talking to the 
countess.” 

At the precinct the delegado was looking very grave. 
“Ah, Senhor, you are just in time to hear the news. 
The train that Niccolo escaped on was wrecked and 
he it seems was one of the few who were killed.” 

McKelvie’s lips moved softly as though he were talk¬ 
ing to himself, “Sic periunt malt Dei gratia” he mur¬ 
mured. 

Outside the police station McKelvie extended his 
hand to me. “I think we can call this the end, Pro¬ 
fessor. I shall delegate to you the task of telling Mr. 
Clinton the story of the skull. The case has not ended 
as he thought it would, but at least he can set his mind 
at ease concerning the part played by his own family. 
I have enjoyed knowing you, Professor.” 

“And I,” I replied, “have been greatly edified and 
honored in having been allowed to watch you work out 
this problem.” 

He made a wry face. “Hardly edified, Professor. 
I cannot claim that the case has redounded to my 
glory. I shall have to mark it up against me as one 
time when I went wrong.” 

[306] 


CONCLUSION 


I did not agree with him. After all he brought it to 
a successful conclusion and he started the race under a 
double handicap—an unfamiliar language and a crime 
whose beginnings in New York he was practically 
unacquainted with. 


THE END 


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